


Run to Me

by shions_heart



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Coffee Shops, Domestic Fluff, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, Flashbacks, Getting Together, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Minor: BokuAka - Freeform, Minor: Iwaoi, Minor: YakuLev, Runaway Kenma, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, past unrequited bokuroo, past unrequited kentora
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2018-11-09 05:17:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 59,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11097696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shions_heart/pseuds/shions_heart
Summary: When a homeless runaway named Kenma literally falls on Kuroo Tetsurou's head, he does the logical thing and offers his place to him. Despite the misgivings of Kuroo's best friends, he and Kenma grow closer as time passes . . .But Kenma is hiding a painful secret, and one day it's going to come out.





	1. The Runaway

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bibbidibobbididette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibbidibobbididette/gifts).



> Hey y'all! This is the Runaway AU that I've been talking about! While I'm going to try my best to not get too heavy into the angst, there are some pretty heavy themes discussed/mentioned/implied throughout this story. Please proceed with caution! I promise, though, that everyone gets a happy ending.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> EDIT: I’ve decided to declare this fic officially complete. The final chapter was going to be self-indulgent fluff/smut that didn't add anything to the story proper, so I’ll say it’s as complete as it’s going to get, at this time.

Kuroo Tetsurou knows that adorable guys don't just fall out of the sky. So when one lands directly on his head, at first he thinks he's dreaming.

He ducked beneath the counter to grab some napkins to restock the canisters, and the next thing he knows, he's flat on his stomach on the floor, with an unfamiliar body on top of him. It takes him a moment to catch his breath, and as he does he can hear shouts from outside the café. The body on top of him moves, and Kuroo takes the opportunity to turn around and face his assailant.

It's a young man, not much younger than himself probably, with long dark hair that must have been dyed at some point, as the lower half is blonde. It lies against his shoulders in greasy strands, and the state of his skin isn't much better. But his large eyes are clear and piercing, a bright amber-gold. He stares back at Kuroo, his small mouth forming an 'O' of surprise.

Kuroo expects an apology or an explanation or _something_ , but when the young man simply rises on his knees to peer over the edge of the counter, Kuroo guesses he has to figure out what's going on himself.

"Um. Can I help you?"

The young man ducks back down, shooting him a look from behind his hair, as it swings forward. "Don't let them know I'm here."

"Don't let _who_ know?"

Instead of answering, the intruder nods toward the counter, apparently signaling for Kuroo to see for himself. He sits up to look over the counter, eyes widening when he sees the policemen gathered outside the door of the café. He turns to the young man beside him, looking him up and down briefly. He doesn't _look_ like a criminal, but then again he doesn't appear to be an upstanding citizen either, what with the dirty appearance and ragged clothing.

"Did you steal something?" he asks.

The boy scowls. "No."

"Did you _kill_ someone?"

"I'm about to if you don't shut up."

Kuroo can't help but grin. "Feisty."

He receives a murderous look in response. Kuroo waves off the expression.

"Don't worry. You can trust me."

He moves to stand, rubbing the back of his head because that collision had _hurt_. The boy doesn't seem convinced, but he remains crouched beneath the counter. Kuroo sets the napkins into their container, as the bell above the door rings and the policemen enter.

"Good morning, gentlemen," Kuroo greets with his usual smile. "Welcome to the Sunshine Café. How can I help you?"

"There was a robbery a couple stores down and we believe the suspect may have come in here. Have you seen a young man, around twenty years old, about this tall, with long dark hair, the lower half blonde?" the first officer asks, keeping his hand at shoulder height.

Kuroo blinks, fighting a smile as he wonders if the young man behind the counter really is that short. He shakes his head at the question, though, shrugging for good measure.

"Can't say that I have," he says. "But I'll keep an eye out for you! Would you like some coffee to go?"

The officer studies him for a moment, and Kuroo schools his expression to be completely neutral yet friendly. Finally, the man shakes his head and gestures for his partner to follow him back outside. Kuroo waits until he's sure they're gone before ducking behind the counter again.

"You lied to me," he says. "You _did_ steal something."

"I didn't."

"You did."

"I didn't."

Kuroo gestures toward the door. "So, you're saying the _cops_ are lying?"

The young man simply blinks at him. Kuroo sighs, running a hand through his hair. His curiosity is piqued, however. It's not every day that a stranger falls on your head. This kid must have an interesting story, and Kuroo wants to know what it is.

"Have you eaten anything?" he asks.

The young man shakes his head.

Kuroo stands, grabbing a pastry from the display and tossing it down to him. He catches it a little clumsily, almost dropping it, and Kuroo can't help but snicker. This earns him a glare, but Kuroo simply continues on to make a cup of coffee. When he crouches to hand this to the guy, he receives another frown.

"Why are you doing this?" he asks.

Kuroo shrugs. "You look like you need it," he admits. "My name's Kuroo, by the way. Kuroo Tetsurou. And you are . . . ?"

"Kenma." The young man takes the coffee without another word.

"Nice to meet you, Kenma," Kuroo says with a nod. He tilts his head then, watching as Kenma nibbles at the pastry and sips the coffee. "What do you plan to do now that I helped get the cops off your back? You're welcome, by the way."

Kenma doesn't thank him. Nor does he answer the question. Kuroo moves to sit, crossing his legs and disregarding the fact that he's technically still on the clock, even though his only customer at the moment is an old man reading a newspaper in the back corner.

"I have space at mine if you need to crash somewhere for a bit," he offers before he can think better of it. "You could use my shower too." He grins, reaching out to pick up a strand of Kenma's greasy hair, but when he sees the barely perceptible flinch, he freezes.

_Shit. That's not a good sign._

His chest aches, as he lowers his hand to his lap and watches Kenma return to his pastry and coffee. 

_Don't be an idiot, Tetsurou . . ._

"It's not very big, my place, but the couch is nice. I've napped there often so I can vouch for it." He grins, maybe a little softer than before, and the pressure on his chest eases once Kenma shrugs.

"Okay," he says.

Kuroo brightens. "Sweet. I hope you like cats."

 

 

He manages to convince his coworker, Yaku Morisuke, to cover his position. Yaku doesn’t seem very happy with the arrangement, but Kuroo assures him that he’ll buy his lunch for the next week.

Guiding Kenma outside, he leads the way down the street a short ten minutes to his apartment building. His place is tucked between a coin laundry and a bakery. Two flights of stairs into a narrow hallway bring them to his front door. As he unlocks it, he suddenly wonders when he last cleaned. He’s not sure Kenma will care, but it feels wrong to bring a guest over if his home is dirty.

Thankfully, it doesn’t look like a tsunami hit. There’s a pair of socks on the floor next to the couch, but Kuroo gracefully kicks these underneath it, as he leads Kenma through.

“So . . . this is my living room,” he says, rambling for the sake of something to say. “You can use the TV whenever. I have a PS4 that my best friend got me, but I don’t play it much, so I don’t have a lot of games. You’re free to use it, though.”

He leads Kenma through the small living area, stepping around the coffee table and gesturing toward the kitchen that’s open to the room. “Help yourself to anything in the kitchen, too.” Turning down the hall, he points to the bathroom and toilet. “Self-explanatory. Then the bedroom’s back there.” He points to the last door at the end of the hall.

Kuroo’s heart jumps to his throat, as the bedroom door swings open, but it’s only Kiki nudging it with her head, before sauntering down the hall, meowing. Relaxing, Kuroo bends down to pick her up, turning to show Kenma.

“This is Kiki,” he introduces with a faint grin. “She’s really friendly, so don’t worry about her biting or anything.”

Kenma steps forward hesitantly, reaching up to run two fingers over Kiki’s head. Immediately, she begins purring. A soft smile twitches the corner of Kenma’s lips, and Kuroo’s heartbeat flutters.

_Wow, Tetsurou. No. Don’t even think about it._

He sets Kiki down, watching her run to the couch to hop up onto it, before looking back at Kenma. “I’ve got to get back to work, but you can use the shower, and there’s clean clothes in the basket next to the door when you walk into the bedroom. I’ll get you a towel.”

“I can’t pay you.”

Kuroo freezes, half-turned toward the linen closet. He glances back toward Kenma. The young man’s eyes are on the floor between them, a small furrow appearing between his eyes.

“Who said anything about payment?” Kuroo asks. He steps closer, ducking his head to try and meet Kenma’s gaze. It’s half-hidden behind his hair, and he turns his face to the side to avoid eye contact. “You don’t have to pay me anything, okay? That’s not what this is about.”

Kenma lifts his head, his frown deepening. “What’s it about, then?”

Kuroo shrugs, straightening. “Being a good person?” He tries a grin. “I’m always this kind.”

Kenma only blinks at him.

“I’ll get you that towel.”

 _It’ll only be a few days,_ Kuroo reminds himself, as he opens the linen closet and pulls out his best, fluffiest towel. _Just to help get him back on his feet._

He hands the towel to Kenma, kicking the closet shut with his foot. “So . . . I’ll see you later. Is there anything you want to eat for dinner? I can pick something up after work.”

Kenma shrugs, making his way into the bathroom.

“I’ll just pick something, then, I guess,” Kuroo says, as Kenma shuts the door in his face. He tells himself to not take it personally. They’re strangers. He can’t expect Kenma to let his guard down and be friendly right away, especially if he’s been on the streets for as long as it appears.

Still, he hesitates in the hallway, not wanting to leave. Will Kenma even be here when he gets back? Or will he rob Kuroo blind and take off?

Kuroo guesses he just needs to trust . . . this person he just met. Who probably stole from a store earlier. Sighing, he looks over at Kiki on the couch.

“Keep an eye on him, okay?” he tells her.

She lifts her head, yawns, then falls back asleep.

_It’ll be fine._

 

 

“You’re letting a _criminal_ stay in your apartment?!”

Kuroo grimaces. He’s on his lunch break, hanging out with his friends, Oikawa Tooru and Bokuto Koutarou (and Bokuto’s boyfriend, Akaashi Keiji). Oikawa has been steadfastly texting someone for the past ten minutes, but Bokuto stares at him in incredulity.

“He’s not a criminal,” Kuroo insists, though he honestly has no idea.

“You just told us he was hiding from the police,” Akaashi points out.

Kuroo frowns at him. “He said he didn’t take anything. And he wasn’t holding anything when he fell on me, so.”

“It could’ve been in his pocket!” Bokuto exclaims. “What if he tries to kill you in your sleep?!”

“How did you get from theft to murder?” Kuroo asks, exasperated. He kicks Oikawa’s legs underneath the table. “Oi. Sir Texts-a-Lot. You want to weigh in, here?”

Oikawa doesn’t look up from his phone. “I agree with Pretty Boy and Beef Cake. You’re taking a big risk here, Tetsun. You don’t even know this kid.”

Kuroo sighs, running his hand through his hair. “I know, I know. But . . . you didn’t see his face.” He looks over at Bokuto, appealing to that large heart of his. “When I reached for him, he flinched. It was barely noticeable, but I saw it. He’s been hurt. He . . . he needs help.”

Bokuto’s eyes widen, as he nods and his expression softens. Akaashi, however, rolls his.

“It’s not your job to save people,” he says. “He might not kill you, but he’ll probably steal from you. Your good intentions will mean nothing when your bank account is depleted.”

Kuroo reaches over and covers Oikawa’s phone with his hand. “Dude, who are you even talking to that’s more important than my predicament?”

Oikawa moves his phone away, sticking his tongue out at Kuroo. “I’ll have you know it’s my boyfriend.”

Kuroo reels back, blinking in shock. “Since when do you have a boyfriend?” he asks incredulously. Something in his chest twists painfully, as he watches the grin spread across Oikawa’s face.

“Since last week,” Oikawa says smugly, finally pocketing his phone. “It’s pretty serious.”

“That’s awesome!” Bokuto says, reaching across the table to high-five Oikawa. “Congrats, dude. When do we get to meet him?”

Oikawa’s smile doesn’t falter, but Kuroo sees the way the light in his eyes dulls. “Ah, well, that’s a little complicated. We can’t exactly go public, yet.”

Kuroo snorts. “What, is he famous or something?”

Oikawa smirks. “You could say that.”

“Or he isn’t real,” Akaashi says.

Oikawa looks affronted. “Why would I lie about meeting the love of my life?”

 _To rub in my face the fact that I’m alone._ Kuroo banishes the thought as soon as it enters his mind. Oikawa might be annoying sometimes, but he’s not cruel like that. Still, it feels like a monumental effort to reach across and give Oikawa a light punch to the shoulder.

“Congrats, man. I’m glad you’re happy.”

Oikawa’s gaze his sharp, as he focuses on Kuroo. “Thank you, Tetsun,” he says lightly. “And as far as your predicament goes . . . you’re a better person than me and Akaashi, so maybe this kid will see that and _not_ take advantage of you.”

“ _Thank_ you,” Kuroo says.

“He probably will, though.”

Kuroo wads up his napkin and throws it at Oikawa’s face.

Once their break is over, Bokuto and Akaashi say goodbye and head out, but Oikawa lingers behind. He leans against the counter, as Kuroo steps up behind it. He watches his friend warily.

“What?”

“I saw that look.”

“What look?”

“The look you gave me when I mentioned I had a boyfriend.”

Kuroo rolls his eyes. “I didn’t have a look.”

“Yes, you did. And I just wanted to tell you that I know how you feel. Being alone sucks. But you can’t take in a complete stranger, a possible criminal, just to cure your loneliness.”

Kuroo purses his lips. “That’s not what I’m doing. I want to help him out.”

“I know you do,” Oikawa says genuinely. “But remember the last time you tried to help someone?”

Kuroo’s chest tightens, and he busies himself with rearranging the pastries on display. “It’s not like that. He’s only staying with me until he gets back on his feet. Nothing’s going to happen.”

Oikawa straightens, giving Kuroo a pointed look. “Just be careful, okay? I don’t want a repeat of third year at university.”

Kuroo swallows hard, staring down at the pastries in front of him. Third year of university isn’t a time in his life he enjoys remembering.

That was the year Bokuto got with Akaashi.

“I’ll be fine,” Kuroo says, glancing sidelong at Oikawa. “That was two years ago. I’m not the same stupid kid I was back then.”

“You weren’t stupid.” Oikawa pulls out his phone, which is buzzing in his hand. He grins, and Kuroo knows immediately who it must be.

“Take it,” he says, waving Oikawa off. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Think about what I said,” Oikawa says, pointing at him. He answers the phone, then, turning away to head out of the café.

Kuroo sighs, closing the display and taking his place behind the register. He forces a grin at the customer who steps up.

“Hello, welcome to Sunshine Café. How can I help you?”

 

 

When standing in line to get take-out, Kuroo wonders if he should order enough food for two people or not. In the end, he decides to get two meals, guessing of Kenma isn’t there he can always eat it for lunch tomorrow. 

He kicks off his shoes just inside the door, kicking it shut behind him. The first thing he notices is the TV playing Final Fantasy XV. Then he sees the bi-colored hair of the young man on the couch. His heart leaps in his chest, as relief fills him.

“You’re still here,” he says, before he can think better of it.

The game pauses, and Kenma lifts his head to look over the back of the couch. “You said I could stay,” he says.

“Yeah, but . . .” Kuroo shakes his head. “Never mind. I’ve got food. You hungry?”

Kiki hops off the couch with a meow, coming over to rub herself against his shins. Kuroo can’t help but grin at her. “Yeah, yeah, I know _you’re_ hungry.”

Kuroo steps over to the coffee table in front of the couch, setting the bags of food down. He glances over at Kenma, and freezes, his heart suddenly pounding very quickly in his throat. Kenma is wearing nothing but one of Kuroo’s shirts, his bare legs curled beneath him. His hair is down and shiny from Kuroo’s conditioner, and even the split ends don’t look as terrible as they did before, lying against Kenma’s shoulders.

Kenma frowns, shifting the hem of the shirt further down his thighs. Not that that helps, much. Kuroo shakes his head quickly to clear it.

“Uh, sorry. Um, food.” He straightens, pointing to it.

Kenma slides off the couch, kneeling beside the table and starting to pull the containers out of the bags. Kuroo inhales shakily, before sitting down beside him. Kenma shifts away automatically, but Kuroo decides to ignore that, for now.

“Tomorrow we’re going clothes shopping,” he declares.

“I have clothes,” Kenma says. “They’re in my bag.”

“Where’s your bag?” Kuroo asks, raising his eyebrows. He didn’t see a bag on the kid when he landed on his head earlier.

Kenma purses his lips.

“Thought so,” Kuroo says, shaking his head. “It’s not a big deal. My friend Oikawa owes me a favor, so I’ll just have him take you.” He pauses. “Actually, Akaashi has a better fashion sense, so maybe I should give you to him.”

He squints at Kenma, trying to picture which style would fit him best. He’d just been wearing dirty jeans and a holey t-shirt before, beneath a stained red hoodie. Comfortable, non-descript.

“I’ll just let you get whatever you want,” he decides finally.

“Okay,” Kenma says, apparently not caring either way. He nibbles on his chicken, eyes on the table.

“How old are you?” Kuroo can’t help but ask, thinking he looks rather young to be living on the streets. He hopes he’s not _too_ young, however.

Kenma frowns, pausing as though he’s considering whether or not he should reveal the information. “Twenty-two,” he says finally.

“I’m twenty-three,” Kuroo says with a faint grin. “So we’re only a year apart. Cool. Where did you go to high school?”

Kenma falls silent, focusing on his food. Kuroo tries again.

“Did you play any sports?”

No response.

Kuroo glances toward the TV screen. “I didn’t play this all the way through. Do you like it so far?”

Kenma lifts his head, studying the paused game. “Yes,” he answers simply, before returning to his chicken.

Kuroo smirks. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

Kenma’s lips twitch. “No,” he says.

Feeling gratified for being able to make him _somewhat_ smile, Kuroo turns to his own food to begin eating. After a few minutes, he reaches down to sneak Kiki some chicken, only to find Kenma already doing so.

“Hey, hey, don’t go trying to steal my cat from me,” he teases.

Kenma strokes his hand over Kiki’s head. She purrs in response, nudging into Kenma’s palm. 

“Traitor,” Kuroo tells her.

Kiki isn’t bothered at all, but simply climbs onto Kenma’s lap. Kuroo watches, grinning at the adorable picture they paint.

“Did you have any pets growing up?” he asks, hoping that’s a safe question, at least.

“No,” Kenma replies, before falling silent once more.

Kuroo sighs, guessing that’s that. He takes another bite of his food, almost choking when Kenma speaks again, startling him.

“But . . . a friend had one. A cat. His name was Tiger.”

Kuroo grins at him. “Was he big, orange, and striped?”

Kenma shakes his head. “Small and white.”

Kuroo laughs. “Where did Tiger come from, then?”

Kenma shrugs. “Tora thought it sounded tough,” he says with a tiny smile.

“Tora?” Kuroo repeats, guessing that had to be the friend.

Immediately, Kenma’s smile disappears. Kuroo winces inwardly, guessing he crossed the line of what Kenma was willing to talk about, again.

“Sorry,” Kuroo offers, reaching for Kenma’s shoulder, before remembering what happened last time and letting his hand fall back into his lap. “You don’t have to answer that. You don’t have to answer anything, honestly. I’m just nosy, sorry. But I can totally shut up if you want me to.”

Kenma doesn’t reply, at first, looking down at the cat in his lap. He strokes his hand over Kiki’s back slowly. “We can watch a movie?” he suggests after a moment.

“Oh, yeah, totally.” Kuroo gestures toward the two bookcases on the wall beside them. “Those last two shelves are just movies. I have Netflix too. We can watch whatever you want.” He pauses. “Uh, unless it’s horror. I’m a giant chicken when it comes to horror.” He smirks faintly. “Don’t tell the ladies.”

Kenma snorts, but the tension has faded, so Kuroo doesn’t mind. He reaches for the TV remote and settles back down with his back against the couch. He opens the Netflix app and scrolls through the movies until he finds a lighthearted one. As it plays, they finish their meal. Out of the corner of his eye, Kuroo watches, as Kenma starts to relax back against the couch, as well. His hand still leisurely strokes Kiki’s back, and Kuroo can see the young man’s expression softening.

 _You’re safe here,_ he wants to say; but it somehow feels too intimate, and he’s afraid of ruining the moment.

So he turns his attention back to the movie and tries to not think so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://shions-heart.tumblr.com/


	2. Press Start to Begin

When Kenma wakes to find himself lying on an unfamiliar couch in an unfamiliar apartment, it takes a moment to get his bearings. There’s a warm weight on his legs, and when he twists to look down at it, he finds a black and white cat staring back at him.

 _Kiki_ , his brain supplies, and with that name, Kenma recalls what happened yesterday.

Sitting up slowly, he does his best to not disturb the cat, but she hops off him anyway, running to the kitchen area. Kenma blinks after her, realizing that someone’s standing there, cooking something at the stove.

 _Kuroo_ , he remembers.

The man is already dressed for work, in dark jeans and a black t-shirt that stretches across his broad shoulders. He’s whistling something under his breath, continuously flicking shower-damp hair out of his eyes in order to see what he’s doing. Kiki meows at him, rubbing against his legs, and Kuroo takes a step back to grin down at her.

“Hey girl, you hungry?”

Kiki meows again, trotting over to a couple of small bowls placed near the sliding glass doors that lead out onto the balcony. Kuroo steps over, opening the pantry and pulling out some cat food. Kenma watches as he feeds the cat, stroking her gently, as she begins eating.

Kenma doesn’t entirely know what to make of this man. He’s offered kindness so freely. Nobody ever just gives without expecting something in return. Not in his experience, at least.

_That’s not true. There was one . . ._

Kenma shakes his head to clear it, frowning at his own treacherous thoughts. It doesn’t matter what happened before. This is his reality, now. And if living on the streets has taught him anything, it’s that nothing is free. Kuroo must want something. If not money, then something else.

Kenma remembers the way Kuroo’s eyes had lingered on his bare thighs the night before. With a grimace, he realizes what must be going on here. It has to be that. There’s no other explanation that makes sense. Kenma side-eyes Kuroo, as he returns to the stove and begins whistling once more.

Well, he’s had to do worse for less, Kenma guesses. And if sucking this guy off will give him a comfortable couch, three meals a day, and access to a PS4 . . . it’s a small price to pay, comparatively. At least Kuroo showers and doesn’t smell like weed.

Kenma moves to stand, walking toward the kitchen. As he draws closer, he sees the omelets Kuroo’s making sizzling in the frying pan. They look and smell delicious, and Kenma’s mouth waters.

Kuroo looks up, as he approaches, and he grins. “Hey! Good morning!”

“Hey,” Kenma replies quietly, leaning against the edge of the counter. He bites his lip, not entirely sure how to broach the subject. Kuroo’s made no insinuations or hinted comments, yet, so he isn’t sure if the man expects payment now or later.

“There’s coffee over there,” Kuroo says, nodding to the pot. “Help yourself. If you wouldn’t mind setting the table too, these will be done in a couple minutes.”

Kenma straightens, opening the cabinets beside him to pull down two plates. He found them yesterday when he snooped through Kuroo’s apartment while the man was at work. He takes these and some silverware over to the small table, setting it before pouring them both some coffee.

“Oh, thanks,” Kuroo says with another grin.

Walking over, he slides an omelet onto Kenma’s plate, then the other onto his own. Once everything’s in the sink to rinse, he sits down across from Kenma.

“So! I had an idea last night,” Kuroo begins.

Kenma stiffens. _Here it is . . ._

“How would you like to come work with me at the café?”

Kenma blinks. Huh?

His confusion must show on his face, because Kuroo hastens to explain.

“Well, I’m pretty sure you don’t have a job, right? And I’m guessing you’re not going to want to stick around here forever, so I figured it’d be good for you to start working and earn some money. You know, so you can save up and get your own place. You’re totally fine to stay here until you save up enough. I know it’ll probably take a while. But I don’t mind the company.” He grins, watching Kenma expectantly.

Kenma stares back at him. This can’t be real. Kuroo can’t be real.

He sits stiffly, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But it doesn’t. Kuroo just continues grinning at him. “Think about it,” he says, turning back to his food. “But you should come to work with me today. I can show you around, you can meet Yaku, and then you can decide later.”

“. . . Okay.” Kenma doesn’t know what else to say. As adverse he is to the thought of working in a café of all places, it’s the best offer he’s gotten since . . .

“Sweet,” Kuroo says, looking rather pleased with himself.

When Kenma finds his old clothes washed and folded at the end of the couch, however, that’s too much for him. He shoots Kuroo a glare.

“What?!” the man asks.

“You didn’t have to wash them,” Kenma mutters, feeling like the scales are tipping too quickly for him to keep track.

Kuroo laughs. “Oh, that? It’s fine! I was up early to take a run and wash my work clothes anyway. ”

Kenma purses his lips. “If I take this job, I’m paying you back.”

Kuroo’s grin shifts to a quizzical one. “It was only a few coins, Kenma.”

Kenma grips the clothes tighter in his arms. “No, I mean for everything.”

But Kuroo’s already shaking his head. “I told you, that money is for saving up for your own place. You’re not paying me a single yen.”

“Then what do you want from me?” Kenma finally blurts out, frustration and annoyance twisting his stomach into a tight knot.

Kuroo’s eyes widen. “Nothing?”

“Nobody offers something for nothing,” Kenma says, shaking his head. “There’s always a price.” _If I don’t pay it now, I’ll pay for it later._ He swallows hard. Isn’t that how the world works? Has he not been punished for his past selfishness all this time?

Kuroo’s expression softens. He takes a step toward Kenma, but Kenma shies away on instinct. Kuroo stops, his hands lifting as though he’s trying to placate a wounded animal.

“Kenma, I promise you, I’m not going to ask you for anything. That’s not what this is about. I just want to help you, because it’s the right thing to do.”

Kenma squints at him, trying to tell if he’s lying. But he can’t tell, and that frustrates him even more. He doesn’t want to stand here arguing about it, though. So he turns away and stalks toward the bathroom, shutting the door behind him so he can change.

Kuroo’s apparently a few minutes late when they arrive, because as soon as they walk into the café, a short man behind the counter yells at him.

“Oi! Just because I let you go home for a bit yesterday, that doesn’t mean you can start slacking off!”

“Good morning to you too, Yakkun,” Kuroo calls back with a smirk, as he saunters toward the counter. “That’s Yaku Morisuke,” he tells Kenma. “We used to play volleyball together back in high school. Now he’s my boss, if you can believe that.”

“I should fire your ass,” Yaku says, as they draw near.

“You love me too much to fire me,” Kuroo says, unconcernedly.

“I don’t love you at all, asshole,” Yaku states, but there’s no malice in his tone. He turns to look at Kenma, his eyebrows rising. “Is this the damsel in distress you had to take home yesterday?”

Kenma blinks, turning to Kuroo and lifting his own brows.

_A damsel in distress?_

Kuroo coughs, looking to the side, rubbing the back of his neck. “I thought I’d sound more heroic if I said it like that,” he admits sheepishly.

Yaku laughs, and Kenma rolls his eyes.

“Get your stupid-ass back here and start taking care of customers,” Yaku says, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

Kuroo hops over the counter with a salute. “Yes, sir!”

Yaku turns to Kenma, then, giving him an appraising look. “Kuroo said you might be interested in working here. You ever worked in a café before?”

Kenma shakes his head.

Yaku narrows his eyes. “Have you ever worked _anywhere_ before?”

_Not unless you count running errands or sucking dick for a handful of yen._

Another shake of his head. Yaku shrugs. “Well, guess it can’t be helped. We could use some help around here, cleaning up tables, restocking napkins, sweeping the floor, stuff like that. You up for it?”

In another life he’d probably turn down manual labor. But he lost the opportunity to pursue his dream career when he ran away. It’s amazing what one’s willing to do when one’s starving, and if he wants to stay with Kuroo, he has to be willing to work. He won’t take Kuroo’s kindness for granted. He’s already made that mistake.

Glancing over, he watches as Kuroo rings up a customer with a cheerful smile. His gaze lingers too long, however, because Kuroo catches him, his smile widening to a grin when they make eye contact. Kenma quickly looks away, hiding behind his hair, as it swings forward.

“Yes,” he replies to Yaku softly.

There’s always a price.

 

 

 

 

As Kenma predicted, the work is dull, but Kuroo and Yaku provide fairly interesting entertainment. Kenma discovers quickly that they will bicker about _anything,_ no matter the topic. If Yaku makes an off-handed comment about something, Kuroo has to reply with a contradictory statement. It’s almost like a game. They argue about movies, anime, politics, the amount of coffee beans they should put in the machines, the _weather_. It’s ridiculous, but Kenma can tell that they enjoy it. There’s a light-heartedness to their fights that speaks of years of friendship.

Kenma’s chest aches.

[ _“Yo, Kenma-kun!”_

_Kenma doesn’t look up from his 3DS, instead hunching over it more. That doesn’t deter his visitor, however, who flops down into the grass next to him, draping an arm across his shoulders and leaning into him to look down at his screen._

_“The new Pokémon!” the boy exclaims in his ear. “You started it already? I wanted to battle you!”_

_Kenma lifts his shoulder in a vain attempt to get the boy off him. “You still can.”_

_“Hell, yeah! I’m gonna kick your ass!”_

_Kenma highly doubts it, but he can’t help but fight a smile at his friend’s enthusiasm. The boy, Yamamoto Taketora, continues to lean against him, shouting out attacks Kenma should try until Kenma’s ear is ringing. He elbows Tora in the stomach, once more trying to get him off him._

_“You’re too loud.”_

_“Hey, Fukunaga! Come look at this! Kenma’s got the new Pokémon!”_

_Kenma feels a second presence settle on his other side. Fukunaga Shouhei presses close against him, peering down at Kenma’s screen. Silently, he points to Squirtle. Tora leans over to see and immediately shakes his head._

_“No way you should fight with Squirtle. Charmander every time!”_

_Shouhei and Kenma exchange a knowing look. “You just like Charmander because he’s a Fire Type,” Kenma says._

_“Fire Types are the best! They’re fierce and strong, like me!” Tora jumps to his feet, punching at the air. “If I was a Pokémon, I’d definitely be a Fire Type!”_

_“If you were a Pokémon, you’d faint at your first hit,” Kenma murmurs, eyes on his screen._

_Fukunaga falls over, cackling, as Tora roars in indignation. “NO I WOULDN’T!”_

_Despite his friend’s outrage, Kenma’s chest feels warm. Sitting here, with friends on either side, he feels safe and happy. Tora is often too loud, and Fukunaga almost never speaks, but it’s a nice balance. He misses them, when he goes home to an empty house. He doesn’t mind being alone, but being lonely . . . that’s a different type of emptiness._ ]

“Hey, Kenma!”

Kenma lifts his gaze from the table he’s wiping down. Kuroo stands in front of him, holding two bento boxes. “Lunch time!”

Kenma blinks, watching as Kuroo pulls out a chair at the table he’s cleaning, sitting down and setting the boxes in front of him. Kenma doesn’t remember him making them that morning, and he’s pretty sure he wasn’t carrying anything when they walked to the café. Kuroo must read his confusion again, because he explains with a grin,

“Yakkun’s boyfriend’s sister brings us lunch sometimes. I’ve gotta pay for Yakkun’s lunch for the next week, though, so I took his for you.” He slides one of the boxes across to Kenma. “Eat! My friends will be here in a bit, so you’ll get to meet Bokuto and Oikawa.”

Kenma sits, pulling the box closer. “And Akaashi?” he asks, remembering Kuroo mentioned someone else last night.

Kuroo’s smile falters briefly, before he fixes it. “He’s Bokuto’s boyfriend.”

“But not your friend,” Kenma guesses, untying the cloth napkin covering the bento.

“We’re friendly,” Kuroo says, turning to his own food.

Kenma supposes there’s a story there, but he’s not about to ask. If Kuroo wants to tell him, he’s sure the man will. He’s been open about everything else, so far. At least, to Kenma’s knowledge.

He’s only taken a few bites of the meal, when the café opens and three men enter.

“Hey, hey, hey!” the one in the front calls, flinging his arms over his head. “There’s a new guy!”

He’s tall and broad, with black and silver hair spiked straight up in the air and large golden eyes that sparkle with excitement. His shirt is stretched over his torso like a second skin, displaying rather impressive musculature. Kenma narrows his eyes, sure he’s seen the man before but unable to recall where. Beside him, a slighter man stands, with short dark hair and dark eyes. He’s wearing dark skinny jeans and a flowing, dark blue shirt that looks impossibly soft. He looks like he’s wearing eyeliner, or else his eyelashes are just that thick. The third man is tall, with perfectly styled brown hair and bright, brown eyes. He looks as though he’s just stepped out of a magazine, wearing beige khakis, and a white button-down shirt beneath an argyle sweater vest.

All three men walk toward the table, taking seats while greeting Kuroo familiarly. Kenma finds himself between the eyeliner guy (upon closer inspection, Kenma sees that yes, the man is wearing eyeliner) and the model. The loud one leans into Kuroo, looking across the table at Kenma.

“Duuuude, introduce us!” he says in a loud whisper.

Kenma’s suddenly very conscious of his ratty clothes. At least his hair isn’t greasy. He ducks his head, as four pairs of eyes fixate on him, wishing he had the ability to phase through the chair and into the floor to escape the scrutiny. As it is, he hunches inward, trying to make himself as small as possible.

“Guys, this is Kenma,” Kuroo introduces. “Kenma, this is Akaashi Keiji, Bokuto Koutarou, and Oikawa Tooru.”

Kenma glances up briefly through the curtain of his hair. Oikawa’s closest to him, and his keen look makes Kenma uncomfortable, like he can ascertain all his secrets with just a glance. He knows that’s impossible, but his skin crawls, and he quickly returns his gaze to the food in front of him.

“Nice to meet you!” Bokuto exclaims, reaching across the table toward him, large palm open for a shake.

Kenma just looks at it, until Akaashi takes Bokuto’s wrist and pulls it off the table.

“I apologize, he doesn’t understand personal space.”

“Akaashi!” Bokuto whines. “I’m just being friendly!”

“Oikawa, I was hoping you could take Kenma shopping for some clothes,” Kuroo says.

Kenma lifts his head slightly with a faint frown. Kuroo mentioned Akaashi would have better taste in clothing, but now he appears to be avoiding looking at the young man at all, instead focusing his attention on Oikawa.

“If it’s on your dime,” Oikawa says, his voice lilting.

Kuroo reels back, indignant. “Excuse me, who’s the one with a cushy publicist job working for one of the most powerful businessman in Tokyo?”

Oikawa primps at the reminder. “While it’s true I’m quite comfortable in my finances, I’ll still be doing you a favor, so what do I get out of it?”

“The satisfaction that a poor kid isn’t walking around looking like he got his clothes out of a garbage bin?”

Kenma frowns. He doesn’t look _that_ bad, does he?

Bokuto laughs. “Dude, he totally owned you!” he crows.

Akaashi shakes his head.

Oikawa turns to Kenma, his eyes gleaming in a way that makes Kenma instantly wary. “I suppose it’s true that you desperately need help,” he says, tapping his chin. “Very well. I’ll buy you new clothes.”

Kenma’s stomach twists. “I’ll pay you back,” he says softly, realizing he’s about to be indebted to yet another person.

“Don’t worry about it,” Oikawa says, waving him off. “Just treat my Tetsun right, and we’ll be square.”

Kenma bites his lip, glancing over to find Kuroo’s face turning red. He reaches across the table to slap at Oikawa’s shoulder.

“Oi, don’t say it like that!” he exclaims.

“I didn’t mean anything by it!” Oikawa squawks back at him.

Bokuto grins at Kenma. “Welcome to the group!” he says, flinging his arms open and nearly knocking both Akaashi and Kuroo in the face with his hands. Akaashi ducks expertly, but Kuroo grabs his arm, the two wrestling briefly over the table.

Akaashi and Oikawa simply pick up their meals so they don’t spill, eating calmly.

Kenma can’t help but wonder what exactly he’s gotten himself into.

 

 

 

 

“So, where are you from, Kenma-kun?” Oikawa asks, watching him, as he leans against a rack of clothes.

Kenma sifts through them silently, not looking up. Oikawa’s been asking him prying questions ever since he arrived at the end of Kenma and Kuroo’s shift to take him shopping. Kuroo had appeared somewhat nervous to turn Kenma over to Oikawa, and now Kenma knows why. The man is just as nosy as Kuroo but lacks all of Kuroo’s tact.

“You look like you’ve been on your own for a while, if your hair is any indication,” Oikawa continues. “Three years? Four?”

Kenma pulls down a few shirts that are plain, solid colors. Nothing flashy. The last thing he wants is to stand out. He moves on to the next rack, looking through the jeans hanging there.

“You’re hiding from something, aren’t you?”

Kenma grows still, his fingers lingering on the pair in front of him.

“Someone that hurt you? Or someone you hurt?”

Kenma’s heart pounds rapidly in his throat. It sounds like there’s an ocean roaring in his ears, as his chest tightens. He grips the jeans, attempting to steady himself, attempting to breathe normally, as he sways.

“You look rather pale, Kenma-kun,” Oikawa observes quietly. “Did I strike a nerve?”

Kenma glares at him. There’s no sympathy in Oikawa’s gaze, only a cold determination. He leans forward, invading Kenma’s personal space, as he looks directly into Kenma’s eyes. Kenma stands stock-still, breath caught in his throat.

“I don’t care what you did before,” Oikawa says slowly. “But if you hurt Tetsurou in any way, you’ll wish you never entered the Sunshine Café. I _will_ discover all your secrets, and I will _destroy_ you.”

A chill runs down Kenma’s spine. He doesn’t doubt Oikawa’s words, at all. But even so, the man doesn’t know him. No matter how much he thinks he does. He doesn’t know the nightmares that plague Kenma every night, how desperate he is to not allow himself to repeat past mistakes.

“I have no intention of hurting Kuroo,” he says flatly, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. He can tell he’s trembling, his fingers aching with how tightly they’re twisted into the clothes he’s holding. But he holds Oikawa’s gaze, doesn’t look away, even when Oikawa smiles.

“You better make sure you don’t,” he says, leaning back.

He claps his hands, his expression clearing instantly. “Okay! Let’s get back to shopping, shall we? I saw a hoodie over there that looks super comfy!”

He strolls over, perfectly calm, and Kenma stares after him.

_Dangerous . . ._

Exhaling slowly, Kenma tries to calm his racing heart. He adjusts the clothes in his arms, before following Oikawa through the store, silently listening to the man chatter about his job, the latest volleyball game, and his plans for a party his boss is throwing soon. It’s like he’s a complete different person than the one that just threatened Kenma, but Kenma knows better.

He remains on guard the rest of the time, despite the fact Oikawa doesn’t ask him any more questions, and he doesn’t relax until they’ve arrived back at Kuroo’s apartment.

Kuroo grins, as he opens the door to let them in. “Hey, how’d it go?”

“Perfect,” Oikawa says with a lighthearted smile. “Kenma-kun knows how to take my suggestions without questioning my taste each time.”

“I really hope there aren’t any grandpa clothes in there,” Kuroo says, shaking his head, as Kenma carries the bags over to set them down by the couch.

“Even if there were, he’d look amazing in them because _I_ chose them,” Oikawa says, sticking out his tongue.

“How much do I owe you?” Kuroo asks, reaching into his pocket to pull out his wallet.

Oikawa shakes his head, waving his hand. “Don’t worry about it, Tetsun. You can just owe me one.” He looks past Kuroo to where Kenma’s lingering by the couch, watching the two. “It was fun hanging out, Kenma-kun!” he calls jovially. “We should do it again sometime!”

Kenma frowns. _Not likely._

Undeterred, Oikawa salutes Kuroo, mentions seeing him at lunch tomorrow, and leaves.

Kenma continues to hover, as Kuroo walks toward the kitchen.

“I’ve already made dinner. You want to eat while we finish that anime we started last night?”

Kenma nods, watching Kuroo as he makes a couple bowls of food and carries them over to the coffee table. He thinks about what Oikawa said. Looking at Kuroo, he can’t think of a reason why anyone would want to hurt him. But something about the way Oikawa spoke to him made it seem as though Kuroo’s been hurt in the past.

Kenma bites his lip, as he moves to sit beside Kuroo on the floor behind the coffee table, facing the TV. The last thing he wants to do is hurt the man who’s been nothing but kind to him. Who took him off the streets without asking for anything in return (so far). But knowing his own track record . . .

Kenma shakes his head. No, he’ll do better this time. He’ll make up for his mistakes. He paid the price, and now he’s going to start anew. He’s allowed to do that, isn’t he? Will the universe let him do that? Let him have this?

“You know,” Kuroo says, his eyes fixed on the TV screen. He’s holding the remote, but he hasn’t started the show yet. “This is going to sound really selfish . . . but I kind of hope you don’t save up enough to leave for a long time.” He glances over at Kenma with a sheepish grin. “I know it’s only been like, two days, but having you here has been really nice. I’ve been on my own for a little over a year now. I know I have Kiki, but it’s not the same as having another person around.”

He reaches up as though to tug on Kenma’s hair, and Kenma hates himself for flinching. But as soon as he sees the hand reaching for him out of the corner of his eye, his first instinct is to duck. Disappointment flickers over Kuroo’s features, just briefly, but enough to slam Kenma’s chest with guilt.

Before Kuroo’s hand can fall away, Kenma reaches for it, grabbing it and holding it firmly. He feels the way Kuroo stiffens in surprise, as his eyes widen.

“I like your company too,” he says quietly, slowly setting Kuroo’s hand down on the table. He allows his fingers to linger on top of it, before pulling away to pick up his chopsticks.

Kuroo exhales shakily. “Cool, thanks,” he says, nonchalantly. He turns back to the TV then and starts the anime.

As the opening theme plays, a comfortable silence falls between them. Kenma can feel himself relaxing, the stress of the day slipping away, releasing the tension in his body. There’s just something about Kuroo’s presence that feels soothing. That feels safe.

It might be too soon to hope for it, but he can see himself making a new home here, with Kuroo.

_This time, I won’t fuck it up._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://shions-heart.tumblr.com/


	3. Things of the Past . . .

“Come on, we’ve got to hurry,” Kuroo says, urging Kenma forward along the sidewalk. “The match has already started!”

Kenma wrinkles his nose, but he lengthens his stride to keep up with Kuroo’s quickened pace. “What match is this again?”

“The Volleyball World League,” Kuroo explains. He already told Kenma about it this morning, but it’s been a long day so he forgives his forgetfulness. “Japan’s National Team is going to be playing.”

At Kenma’s blank stare, Kuroo continues. “Bokuto’s a player. He got picked right out of university.”

Kenma tilts his head. “Is that why he and Akaashi haven’t been at lunch this past week?”

Kuroo nods. “They left for Brazil last Friday.”

A sharp pang enters his chest, as a memory rises unbidden to his mind. Gritting his teeth, he shoves it back as best he can. He doesn’t want to be sad, tonight. Bokuto doesn’t deserve that.

Kenma mumbles something, and Kuroo turns to him, hoping for a distraction. “What was that?”

Kenma glances up at him. “I thought Bokuto looked familiar. I think I’ve seen him on posters or something.”

Kuroo nods. “He’s got such an interesting look, a lot of people use him for advertising.” He jogs up the stairs to his front door, already getting his keys out. “We used to play against each other in high school. He’s a bit of a handful, but once he gets serious he’s an incredible player. I always knew he’d make it big.”

Kenma follows him into the apartment, toeing off his shoes and sliding into the cat face slippers Kuroo bought for him. He’s been staying with Kuroo for almost a month now, and he’s starting to move around the place more comfortably. It’s like he’s starting to realize he has a home there, with Kuroo.

Kuroo catches himself staring, as Kenma sits on the couch and pets Kiki, who hops up onto his lap almost immediately. Kenma strokes her back gently, and she purrs loudly, twisting around and around to rub her face against his arm.

_He looks like he belongs there . . ._

He knows this is supposed to be temporary. But every day that passes, Kuroo can’t help but selfishly wish that Kenma will never make enough money to live on his own. That he’ll stay with Kuroo forever. It’s a stupid wish; he knows that, too. He barely knows the guy. He certainly hasn’t revealed anything of his past. But . . . still. His presence is a soothing one. He’s a quiet yet steady constant in Kuroo’s life. He turns around and Kenma’s there, no matter where he goes or what he does. When he runs errands, Kenma’s still in the apartment when he gets back. When he wakes up in the morning and steps out into the living room, Kenma’s still there, sleeping on the couch.

He likes that. That reliability. And despite Oikawa’s continuous warnings not to trust Kenma, not to let his guard down until the young man tells him everything, Kuroo doesn’t want to live in suspicion. To him, Kenma’s already proved himself by staying and not running off with any of his things.

“Are we going to watch this thing or?” Kenma asks, tilting his head back to look at Kuroo with a quirked eyebrow.

Kuroo shakes the thoughts from his head and grins. “Right,” he says, hopping over the back of the couch to settle in next to him. He picks up the remote to turn on the TV, switching it to the correct channel. The match is already in progress, Japan up by two points in the first set. Kuroo pulls his legs up to sit cross-legged, leaning over them as he searches the screen for Bokuto.

“Why don’t you still play?” Kenma asks quietly after a moment.

“What?” Kuroo asks, distractedly.

“Volleyball. You don’t play anymore.”

“Oh.” Kuroo leans back, having located Bokuto and now able to keep an eye on him without focusing so much. “Well . . . I played in college until my third year . . . My mom got really sick. And other stuff happened . . . basically, I couldn’t handle the pressure and choked. My grades plummeted, I performed poorly on the court . . . Coach suggested I take a break and a month became two, which became three . . . until there wasn’t really any point in going back.” Kuroo shrugs, but his chest feels tight. He still remembers the look on Bokuto’s face when he told him he wasn’t returning to volleyball . . . how shocked and hurt he was.

_But he had Akaashi to run to, then. He didn’t need me._

Kenma’s watching him, his large eyes looking like deep, golden pools. Kuroo tears his gaze away to refocus on the game. “That’s all in the past now. My mom is okay, I have a job that isn’t . . . well, it’s kinda terrible, but it’s okay. I’m okay.”

Kenma doesn’t respond, so Kuroo falls silent as well, fighting the ache in his chest. It grows easier to ignore once the game really gets going, Japan falling behind in the second set. Halfway through, Kuroo’s phone starts ringing. He sees it’s Oikawa and hits the green button to answer, putting him on speaker.

“DID YOU SEE THAT? DID YOU SEE IT? HOW DID THE REF NOT CALL THAT! IT WAS A TOTAL NET TOUCH!”

Kuroo grins. “Don’t worry, Kou will get it back. He’s in really good form today.”

“He better! I have a lot of money riding on him!”

Kuroo exchanges a look with Kenma. “Since when do you place bets?”

“Oh, it’s just a thing I have going on with Iwa—my boyfriend,” Oikawa says dismissively. “He’s really into volleyball, too. I’m at his place, actually!”

“So _that’s_ why you said you couldn’t make it tonight.” Kuroo says, rolling his eyes. “You know, you could’ve just brought your boyfriend over here. We could’ve all watched the game together.”

“And risk you interrogating him on what’s supposed to be a fun night? No, thank you!”

“Like you interrogated Kenma?” Kuroo glances at Kenma apologetically, still feeling bad after hearing about how Oikawa threatened his guest. Kenma didn’t tell him about it, of course. He heard the story from the man himself.

“That’s different. You’re not dating Kenma,” Oikawa says, before pausing. “Or _are_ you?”

Kuroo feels his face warm, and he avoids looking over at Kenma, afraid of what his expression might be. “ _No,_ ” he insists. “Focus on the game!”

“Well, Japan is going to lose this second set,” Oikawa predicts. “This setter is not giving Bokuto the best tosses. They’re going to substitute him in the third set. They’ll win that one.”

“They might rally through and win this second set,” Kuroo argues.

“No,” Kenma says softly on his left. “He’s right. Something’s off with the setter. He’s hesitating too long before he tosses. Like he isn’t sure Bokuto is the best one to toss to, even though he eventually does.”

Kuroo glances sidelong at him. “I didn’t know you knew volleyball,” he says slowly, wondering if Kenma’s about to reveal something about himself.

But Kenma simply glances down at the phone on Kuroo’s knee, before pursing his lips and looking back at the screen. Oikawa clicks his tongue.

“Puddingchan is right, though,” he says, referencing Kenma’s two-toned hair. He’s taken to calling him that, since he can tell it annoys Kenma. Kuroo’s offered to take Kenma to a stylist to get it re-dyed or at least the ends chopped off, but Kenma’s response is always uninterested. “That setter doesn’t trust Bokuto.”

“I know he’s flighty, and I’m sure he isn’t always joy to have during practices, but he’s doing really well today,” Kuroo says defensively. “He should have more faith in him!”

He can hear the smirk in Oikawa’s reply, “why don’t you call the coach and tell him?”

_Akaashi could always tell when to toss to Bokuto. He reads him better than I ever did . . ._

“Let’s just hope Bokuto doesn’t get frustrated and throw a fit on live television,” Kuroo says, leaning back against the couch.

In the end, Oikawa and Kenma’s prediction comes true. Japan loses the second set, only to rally and slam into victory by winning the next two. As the players celebrate on screen, Kuroo can make out Bokuto running and grabbing someone in the audience, lifting him up in a hug. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who that is, and Kuroo quickly flips to a different channel.

Oikawa hung up during the last set, saying something about tending to his boyfriend, and Kenma sits beside him in silence, as the late night news plays in front of them.

“I played some in high school,” Kenma admits softly. “Volleyball. I . . . was a setter.”

Kuroo glances over at him, surprised. “Yeah? Were you any good?” he smirks faintly.

Kenma shrugs. “I was okay. The team was strong, they . . . supported me well.”

“Did you like it?” Kuroo asks, not thinking Kenma looks much like the athletic type.

Kenma wrinkles his nose. “I hated it.”

Kuroo laughs. “What? Seriously? How could you _hate_ volleyball?”

Kenma shrugs again. “I just didn’t care, and it was a lot of effort . . .”

“Why the hell did you play then?” Kuroo asks with a disbelieving grin.

Kenma falls silent, looking down at his fingers, as they curl into Kiki’s fur. “My friends . . .” he starts, before trailing off.

Kuroo wonders if it had anything to do with that “Tora” Kenma mentioned that first night he was here. He wants to ask, the question is burning on his tongue, but he doesn’t want to discourage Kenma from opening up, and he has a feeling that “Tora” is going to be a touchy subject for a while.

“That’s admirable that you’d play for your friends,” he offers instead. “They must’ve been pretty great friends.”

Kenma nods absently.

Kuroo ducks his head, trying to catch Kenma’s gaze from behind his hair. “I bet you were a good friend, too,” he says gently.

Kenma looks away, saying nothing.

_“. . . in a statement earlier today. It’s unclear whether or not how Iwaizumi Hajime will handle this new responsibility, but we are all eager to find out what this young man has in store for his father’s company.”_

Kuroo glances at the screen, watching as the camera cuts to a man around his own age, wearing a tailored business suit, buttoned all the way up with a tie, squinting into the screen. He looks uncomfortable, like he doesn’t want to be standing there, dark brows drawn over olive-green eyes.

 _“My father is a proud man,”_ he says into the camera. The footer at the bottom of the screen reads, “Iwaizumi Hajime, new Vice-President of Iwaizumi Manufacturing, Inc.” _“I know he would not turn over such a responsibility to just anyone. I plan to take my duties very seriously, and I thank him for this opportunity.”_

Kenma blinks at the screen. “Isn’t that the company Oikawa works for?”

Kuroo narrows his eyes. “Yes, yes it is.”

He poises his thumb over his phone, remembering Oikawa’s earlier slip of the tongue. “Iwa,” he started to say. As in . . . _Iwaizumi_?

In the end, he waits until Kenma’s gone to sleep before calling his best friend. It’s nearly midnight, but he doesn’t think about that fact, as he waits for Oikawa to answer.

“Tetsun?” Oikawa’s voice is groggy. “Why are you calling me? Don’t you know I need my beauty sleep?”

“Is it Iwaizumi Hajime? Are you dating Iwaizumi-fucking-Hajime?”

Oikawa doesn’t answer. Kuroo grips his phone tighter, glancing toward his closed door, as he struggles to keep his voice down.

“Oikawa, do you know what the fuck you’re doing? He’s the son of one of the most powerful businessmen in Tokyo. Do you _know_ what could happen if his father _finds out_?”

“Of course I know,” Oikawa hisses. “Do you think I’m doing all this cloak and dagger stuff for _fun_? You should know more than anyone how badly I want to show off someone like Iwaizumi Hajime on my arm.”

“Oikawa, you could literally have anyone you want. Why did you have to go and fall for _him_?”

“I could have anyone, huh?” Oikawa’s voice sounds dull and tired, and Kuroo feels like someone dumped ice-cold water over his head.

_Did I miss something?_

Oikawa sighs. “Look, Tetsun, I appreciate your concern. But you can’t tell me who I can or cannot date, just like I can’t tell you. We’re grown men, able to make our own mistakes.”

“So, you know dating Iwaizumi is a mistake,” Kuroo gathers.

“And you know harboring Kenma is yours.”

Kuroo purses his lips, knowing he has no counter-argument. Oikawa’s voice softens.

“Tetsurou . . . I think I’m in love with him. Please, just . . . support me, okay? Be my best friend.”

“I’ll always be your best friend,” Kuroo says immediately. “That’s why I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“Now you know how I feel.”

Kuroo sighs, leaning his head back against the wall behind him. “Kenma’s not going to hurt me, Tooru.”

“So you both keep saying . . . It’s late. I’m going back to sleep.”

Kuroo listens to the beep and call ends. He lowers his phone slowly to his side, as he stares at the bedroom door in front of him, thinking of what’s beyond it. Kenma, asleep on his couch, slender hands tucked under his round cheek, small pouty lips parted slightly, possibly drooling.

His chest seizes, and he lies down finally, only to stare up at the ceiling. He realizes then that he didn’t call Bokuto to congratulate him on the day’s win.

_He’s probably in the middle of celebrating with Akaashi, anyway._

Grimacing at _that_ mental picture, Kuroo rolls over onto his side and closes his eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

“I’m taking you out today.”

Kenma blinks up at him from the couch, frowning slightly. “What?”

“I realized we’ve done nothing but work since you got here,” Kuroo says, placing his hands on his hips. “I haven’t taken you to see any of the sights around here.”

Kenma blinks again. “I’m not . . . really a sight-seeing person . . .”

“But eventually we’ll stumble across something you like. It’s statistically impossible for you to _not_ like something when there’s so much to see and do around here. So come on, get dressed. We’ll go get some breakfast, and then I’m showing you the city.”

Kuroo decided this the other day, when thoughts of Bokuto and Akaashi and Oikawa and Iwaizumi wouldn’t stop plaguing his mind. When he wasn’t worrying about Oikawa, his brain supplied thoughts of Bokuto and Akaashi enjoying Japan’s frequent victories in the World League Championship. His only source of distraction is work and Kenma. And since it’s a Sunday and neither of them work, that means he needs to focus on Kenma.

Kenma’s nice to focus on, anyway.

He eventually rolls off the couch and gets dressed, in the most adorable short shorts and t-shirt Kuroo’s ever seen in his life. The shirt has a pocket with a cat in it, and when he asks to get a closer look, Kenma pulls down the pocket, revealing the cat’s paws flipping him off. Kuroo thinks this is hilarious, and laughs for a good minute and a half, almost putting his shoes on the wrong feet.

He drops a wide-brimmed sun hat on Kenma’s head, before they walk out the door, knowing it can get brutal during the afternoon, and stuffs some sunscreen, snacks, and water into his backpack. As for himself, he’s dressed in pale jeans and an airy shirt with a wide collar.

“Do you think we’ll need antiseptic and bandages?” Kuroo asks, not thinking they’ll run into any trouble to need them, but perhaps it’d be good to have them, just in case.

Kenma looks up at him, amused. “Are you planning on getting into any fights?”

“No,” Kuroo admits. “But it’s better to be safe than sorry, right?”

Kenma shrugs, looking away. Kuroo deliberates for a few more seconds, before going to the hall closet to grab some anyway. Once he’s sure he has everything they might need, he opens the front door.

“And, we’re off!”

Kuroo can tell Kenma is less than enthusiastic about this idea, but he appreciates the fact that he’s not complaining . . . openly, at least. He _is_ pouting, an adorable little pout that has his lower lip poking out just slightly. Kuroo starts to drop his arm across Kenma’s shoulders, before thinking better of it and letting it fall back to his side.

“Come on, I’ll buy you something cool,” Kuroo says with a grin. “And we’ll get ice cream, watch some ducks, it’ll be great!”

Kenma sighs, but his shoulders straighten slightly, and he matches Kuroo’s stride. One perk about living in the city is the ability to simply walk anywhere. Everything is a reasonable distance, and it’s not long before they find themselves in the center of the nearest shopping district. There are people everywhere, window shopping, actually shopping, and Kuroo notices how Kenma seems to shrink, his shoulders curling inward once more, as he takes a step closer to Kuroo. Again, Kuroo’s hit with the urge to wrap his arm around the young man, but he simply curls his fingers into a fist and keeps walking.

“Where do you want to go first?” Kuroo asks, looking around at all the stores available.

Kenma shrugs. “This was _your_ idea,” he mutters.

“I know, but I want you to have fun,” Kuroo says with a nod. He catches sight of an electronics store. They could probably benefit from getting a few more games. Kenma’s already almost completed the ones Kuroo has. “Follow me,” he says, making his way toward the store.

Kenma sticks close to him, as Kuroo maneuvers through the crowd to the store. Stepping through the doors, Kuroo turns to Kenma and feels gratified, as he watches Kenma’s eyes light up.

“So, I have enough for one game, maybe two, so choose wisely,” Kuroo says with a grin.

But Kenma bypasses the games and goes immediately to the portable gaming consoles. He picks up a Nintendo 3DS, gripping it in both hands. Kuroo takes a step closer to look down at it over his shoulder, observing the price. He winces slightly.

“Well . . . it’s a little more expensive than I was thinking,” he starts, his chest aching at the thought of disappointing Kenma. “And I’d have to buy a game for it otherwise it’d be useless . . .”

Kenma hugs the box to his chest. “I’ll pay you back,” he says softly. “Mine . . . was stolen.”

Well. He can’t very well say no now, can he?

Kuroo leans back, rubbing the back of his neck. “No, no, it’s fine.” He grins crookedly. “I was planning on taking you out to eat after all this, but if you’re okay with skipping that—”

“I’m okay,” Kenma says quickly, cutting him off.

Kuroo laughs. “Okay, okay. Choose a game to go with it then, and we’ll get it.”

Kenma doesn’t waste time finding the game he wants. He chooses a Zelda one, which Kuroo’s admittedly never even heard of before, but he takes the game and the console to the front to pay for it. He can practically feel Kenma vibrating beside him. When he turns and hands the bag to him, Kenma smiles, a real smile. It’s small, but it’s there, and Kuroo’s heart flips over itself.

_Oh. Shit._

His face feels warm, and he quickly leads the way out of the store. “So, where to next?” he asks, but Kenma’s already sitting down on a bench, rifling through the bag. Shaking his head, Kuroo joins him.

“You just want to play the game now? Seriously? There’s still so much to do!”

Kenma hesitates, glancing up at him with a faint frown. “Like what?”

Kuroo taps his chin in thought. “Well, if you like video games so much, we could go to the arcade.”

“How is that different from sitting here and playing Zelda?” Kenma asks, blinking.

Kuroo bites his lip. “Well, a lot of those games I could play _with_ you . . .”

Kenma considers him a moment before sliding the box back into the bag. “Okay,” he says, moving to stand.

Kuroo hops to his feet. “Awesome,” he says with a grin. “I think you’re really going to like it!”

Kenma says nothing, but he follows him through the crowd once more, a few streets down to where the arcade sits. Kuroo knows this’ll cost more money, but he honestly doesn’t mind. If it makes Kenma happy, he’ll go into debt for the day. He works enough to make it up later.

In the neon lights of the arcade, Kenma’s eyes gleam almost eerily, reflecting the multiple colors flashing throughout the room. Kuroo finds himself continuously glancing down at him, unable to look way for very long. Kenma shoves the electronics store bag at Kuroo, hurrying to a game that appears to be some sort of fighting one.

As Kenma starts playing, gaze intense, tongue poking out just slightly out of the corner of his mouth, Kuroo is hopelessly distracted. Despite the noise and the lights, he can’t seem to tear his gaze from Kenma’s face. His eyes are bright, expression open and expectant, and Kuroo’s hit with the overwhelming urge to kiss him.

_Stop, idiot. You know he’s been through stuff. Don’t be a pervert!_

But it’s not just the attraction that draws Kuroo to Kenma; it’s his entire being. His rare smiles, the gentleness with which he pets Kiki, his soothing presence, his willingness to listen and provide quiet support . . . all of it. All of Kenma. Kuroo knows he’s been lonely, he knows he’s probably projecting that loneliness onto Kenma. But he can’t help but . . . want.

_You can’t do this, Tetsurou. You still barely know anything about his past, you don’t know how long he’ll stick around, you don’t even know his last name! You’re setting yourself up to get hurt. **Again**._

He knows all that.

“I beat this one, let’s keep going,” Kenma says, grabbing Kuroo’s wrist and pulling him down the aisle to another game.

Kuroo allows himself to be dragged from game to game, sometimes participating, sometimes just watching. He loses track of time, in this strange, colorful world Kenma’s navigating through, and there’s some part of him that wishes he could stay here forever.

But of course good things can never last, and the illusion breaks when two large young men step up to the game Kenma’s playing.

“Yo, move. We wanna play this one,” the first guy says. He’s got a bulbous nose, and his breath smells like cheese.

“Hey, we were here first,” Kuroo says, stepping up to stick his arm out in front of the guy. “Wait your turn.”

The two observe him for a moment, looking him up and down, and Kuroo’s glad he has height on his side, because they take a small step back. He hopes that’ll be it, but then the second guy makes a grab for Kenma. As soon as his hand touches Kenma’s shoulder, the guy is on the floor, his arm twisted upside down in Kenma’s grasp.

“Fuck!” he yelps, his face screwed up in pain.

Cheese Breath steps forward, arm pulled back to strike, but Kuroo’s there in an instant, grabbing his fist and shaking his head. “I really wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he warns.

“If you want to play the game, just ask nicely,” Kenma says to the guy he’s holding down, his voice low and calm yet hard as steel.

“Fuck you and the stupid game,” the guy spits. He tries to pull his arm away, but Kenma simply twists it harder. The guy cries out, attracting attention from those close by. Kuroo can tell this situation could quickly get out of hand if someone calls security, so he turns to Kenma.

“Kenma, let him go. You proved your point.”

Kenma’s expression is like stone, his jaw set, lips pursed. Kuroo ducks down to try and catch his gaze. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. He’s not going to hurt you,” he murmurs. “You’ve subdued him. He won’t touch you again.”

Slowly, Kenma relaxes his grip. The guy stands quickly, cradling his arm with a scowl. “Crazy motherfucker,” he mutters.

Kuroo glances worriedly at Kenma, but he’s already turning away, disinterested. “I’m hungry,” he says absently, starting to wander toward the exit.

Kuroo turns to the two beside him, giving them his most vicious smile. “Mind your manners, boys.”

They look back at him warily, but they nod their heads. Satisfied, Kuroo hurries after Kenma.

The light outside is bright, and Kuroo squints against it to find Kenma standing beside an ice cream stand. He makes his way over, unsure whether or not to address what happened inside. He catches Kenma about to pay for his ice cream and quickly reaches out to stop him, hovering his hand over Kenma’s.

“Whoa, hey, today is my treat, remember?”

Kenma frowns. “I can pay for my own ice cream,” he says, and his voice is tight.

Kuroo decides it’s better to just let him be and pulls his arm back, holding up his hand in surrender. “Okay,” he says, digging into his pocket, then, to pay for his own ice cream.

They find a bench to sit, the cool ice cream on Kuroo’s tongue a welcome relief to the sun beating down against his shoulders and the back of his neck. Kenma had taken off the hat while inside the arcade, stuffing it into the bag, so Kuroo pulls it out and drops it on Kenma’s head.

“You’re not going to scold me?” Kenma asks after a moment.

Kuroo shrugs. “Bastards deserved it. Though, I was surprised to see that move. You’re faster than you look.”

Kenma squints at him.

“Ah, that didn’t come out right.”

Kenma looks away. “It’s okay. I’m used to people underestimating me.”

“You . . . really hate being touched, huh?”

Kenma licks at his ice cream, not answering. Kuroo sighs, turning his attention to his own cone before it starts dripping down his hand. After a moment, though, he feels a light pressure against his arm. Looking down, he sees Kenma’s leaning against him, just slightly.

“Not always,” he murmurs, so quietly that Kuroo’s afraid he misheard him.

But there’s no mistaking the warmth of his arm, and he finds his fingers twitching, aching to reach over and curl around Kenma’s. His heart is pounding rapidly in his tightening chest, and he suddenly feels very dizzy.

“Kenma . . .” he breathes the name, not entirely sure what he wants to say. Kenma’s focus is back on his ice cream, but Kuroo can’t help himself.

He takes a chance.

Slowly, carefully, he slides his hand closer to Kenma. Kenma doesn’t move. Kuroo slips his pinky onto the back of Kenma’s hand, barely brushing it. When Kenma remains still, he exhales shakily, lightly covering Kenma’s hand with his own.

Kenma does nothing, but that’s good enough for Kuroo. They sit there, eating their ice cream, until all that’s left is the stickiness on their palms. It’s only then that Kenma pulls away, as he stands and tosses the trash into the nearest bin. Kuroo stands as well, feeling a weight on his chest. He wants to reach for Kenma’s hand again, but he’s unsure of pressing his luck.

“It’s hot,” Kenma says, looking at something up the street, or maybe at nothing. Kuroo can’t tell.

“You want to start heading back?” Kuroo asks.

Kenma nods and starts walking. Kuroo follows, resisting the urge to take his hand as they walk together. He puts his hand into his pocket, carrying the bag with the other.

“Well! Aside from that slight mishap, I’d say the day went pretty well,” he declares to fill the silence. He glances sidelong at Kenma with a grin. “You had fun, didn’t you?”

Kenma wrinkles his nose beneath the sun hat.

“Come on, you totally did!” Kuroo insists. “You were like a little kid in that arcade. You should’ve seen your face. It was all bright and excited.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“It totally was.”

“It _wasn’t_.”

“It was~”

Kenma shoots him a glare, but Kuroo only smirks back at him. The atmosphere has lightened, at least, and Kuroo’s chest doesn’t feel as tight, especially knowing his date was successful on both ends. He got Kenma to have fun, and he didn’t once dwell on the thoughts that plagued him earlier.

“So, since I can’t take you out to a fancy dinner, what should we eat?” Kuroo asks. “Want to just pick up something? Or I could probably make some breakfast food or something, since we totally forgot to eat breakfast earlier.”

Kenma nods. “Breakfast sounds good.”

“Awesome! I make great breakfast food,” Kuroo says with a grin. “When I was a kid, I used to make breakfast for my mom sometimes. My dad left when I was little, so it’s been just us two for as long as I can remember. She worked really hard, so I felt like spoiling her a little after she worked late. She always gave me a hard time whenever I burned something, she’s pretty ruthless like that, but I could tell she appreciated it.”

Talking about his mom, Kuroo can’t help but wonder what she’d make of Kenma. She’s really good at reading people, though she lacks a filter, which makes that gift backfire many times. Would Kenma be wary of her? Or would they get along?

“My mom never cooked breakfast,” Kenma admits, his eyes on the sidewalk in front of them. “My . . . parents worked a lot. They were rarely home. They left groceries in the fridge . . . that’s about it.”

Kuroo grimaces. “You’ve had to take care of yourself for a long time, huh?”

Kenma shrugs one shoulder. Kuroo studies him, wondering if Kenma ran from his parents’ neglect or if something else had happened. There’s still that mysterious “Tora,” that Kenma won’t talk about.

Taking a chance, Kuroo drops his arm across Kenma’s shoulders. Kenma stiffens, but he doesn’t shrug him off.

“Well, now you’ve got me to spoil you. And stop worrying about paying me back, okay? I like taking care of people. Makes me feel useful.”

“It’s annoying,” Kenma grumps.

“You like being spoiled,” Kuroo says with a smirk. “You try to hide it, but I saw how happy you were when I got you that game.”

“Shut up,” Kenma says, nudging him in the side with his elbow.

It’s a playful gesture, and Kuroo can’t help but laugh, his chest feeling light, warm.

Dinner is eggs on rice and pancakes topped with strawberries. Kuroo has a difficult time getting Kenma to put his new 3DS down to eat, but he’s so excited Kuroo’s can’t make himself pull it away from him.

After dinner, they get ready for bed, sharing the mirror in the bathroom to brush their teeth. That warmth in Kuroo’s chest hasn’t faded, and looking at Kenma in the mirror, he can’t help but smile, loving the domestic feel of standing there beside him, Kuroo in his pajama pants, Kenma in Kuroo’s shirt. It feels like they’re actually a couple.

It’s a dangerous line of thinking, one of which Oikawa would definitely not approve.

As he spits and rinses, he can’t help but wish to know what Kenma’s thinking. Sometimes his emotions are clear as day, his face twisting in interesting expressions, most of the time to display his displeasure. But then other times, he’s as unreadable as a blank wall.

“Hey,” Kuroo says softly, as Kenma finishes and wipes his mouth. He turns toward him, looking up with those wide golden eyes. Kuroo’s mouth goes dry, and he licks his lips nervously. “Thanks for coming out with me today.”

Kenma blinks at him, completely silent, completely unreadable.

“I . . . uh . . . shit,” Kuroo rubs the back of his neck, knowing exactly what he wants to do but afraid of crossing that line, afraid of screwing things up. Kenma trusts him. He doesn’t want to do anything to break that trust.

Even so, he finds his hand reaching for Kenma’s face, tracing the line of his cheekbone with a feather-light touch. Kenma freezes, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly. But his face turns pink, and Kuroo’s heart races.

“I—”

“Is that what you want?” Kenma asks, his voice tightly contained, as his eyes bore into Kuroo’s.

Kuroo blinks, confusion breaking past the anxiety. “What?”

Kenma takes a step closer, and Kuroo inhales sharply, as he hooks his fingers into Kuroo’s waistband and tilts his head. “Do you want me to suck you off? Do you want to fuck me? Is that what you’ve been waiting for me to offer?”

He’s breathing hard, fingers trembling, and Kuroo suddenly realizes what’s going on.

“No!” he yelps, leaping away from Kenma so quickly he nearly trips over the edge of the bathtub. He plants his hand on the wall to steady himself. “What the fuck? No! Kenma, that’s not . . . I would _never_ make you do that!”

Kenma stares at him. “But you want me.”

Kuroo shakes his head quickly. “I . . . I mean, yeah I’m . . . _attracted_ to you. I . . . but I’m not going to ask you to-to suck me off or let me fuck you as some sort of . . . perverted repayment thing!”

Kenma lowers his gaze. “Oh.”

“Did you honestly think I would do that?” Kuroo asks, feeling sick to his stomach. He sinks down to sit on the edge of the tub, dropping his head into his hands. “I wasn’t . . . I like you, Kenma. I want you to feel safe here. I’m sorry about before, about touching you like that, I wasn’t . . . I didn’t do that because I was expecting anything. I just . . . I don’t know. I wanted to feel close to you.”

He closes his eyes, remembering the last time he’d felt close to someone in that way. He remembers the soft touches, the gentle kisses, the quiet shared laughter beneath a comforter.

_But it wasn’t real. It was just practice. Practice for **him**._

He knows that’s not entirely fair. He has no proof that Bokuto had any ulterior motives for what he did. In fact, it would be very out of character for him. Kuroo knows that.

It doesn’t make the pain sting any less, though. Even after two years.

“Kuroo . . .”

Kuroo feels slender hands take his wrists, lowering them from his face. Kenma’s crouched in front of him, looking up into his face with an apologetic expression.

“I do feel safe here,” he says softly.

Kuroo stares back at him, still feeling miserable. “But if you thought that . . .”

Kenma looks away. “I’m just . . . not used to people giving things to me out of kindness. On the street . . . there’s almost always an angle. Everybody expects something. If you want something, you have to earn it somehow.”

Kuroo feels nauseous at the thought of Kenma being used like that. He wants to find whoever touched him and beat them into the ground. He’s not usually a violent person, but the thought of anyone hurting Kenma makes his blood boil.

“I would never do that to you,” he says, barely getting the words out past the lump in his throat.

Kenma releases his wrists in order to take his face in his hands. They’re warm, lightly calloused, and Kuroo’s breath hitches at the touch.

“I know,” Kenma tells him, meeting his gaze once more. Leaning forward, he places the smallest kiss on Kuroo’s forehead. It’s barely a brush of his lips, but Kuroo feels a shiver run down his spine, as he closes his eyes to try and cling to the feeling.

But Kenma pulls away a second later, moving to stand.

“Thanks for today,” he says, his voice distant. “I did have fun.”

Kuroo nods, swallowing hard, as he lowers his head to stare at the tile between his feet. He doesn’t know what this means, if it means anything. Does Kenma like him back? Or was the kiss just to reassure him that he feels safe? Kuroo closes his eyes again, reminding himself that he’s not supposed to expect anything. It is what it is. And tomorrow will be what it will be.

He’s just grateful for Kenma’s presence, no matter what type of relationship they have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://shions-heart.tumblr.com/


	4. . . . Come Back to Haunt You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to the lovely and amazing Pixie on her birthday! She's the Hinata to my Kenma, and I couldn't be more blessed or happy to have her in my life. Happy Birthday, love! I hope you enjoy the chapter~

_[Small fingers tangle into his hair, braiding groups of strands around his head. Kenma sits hunched over his PSP, thumbs pressing wildly as he battles the boss of his current level._

_“Big Brother is going to look **super** pretty,” Akane declares, as she ties off each braid with a sparkly hair-tie._

_Kenma doesn’t really care if he looks pretty or not. He’s only letting her do this because she was bored and has **really** good puppy eyes. The fact that her fingers feel good threading through his hair is a bonus._

_“I’M HOME!” Tora’s loud voice nearly shakes the walls of the house._

_“IN HERE!” Akane shouts back, almost as loud as her brother. Kenma flinches, bracing himself for Tora’s inevitable entrance._

_Sure enough, not two minutes later Tora is bursting into the room, rattling the wall as he slams the door against it._

_“LITTLE SISTER!” he cries, flinging his arms open wide, his book bag flying into the corner._

_“BIG BROTHER!” Akane screams in return, flinging herself on him._

_They wrestle on the floor, as Kenma scoots back out of the way, trying to stay focused on the game despite the disruption. Eventually, Tora allows himself to be pinned, and Akane stands on his back, triumphant._

_“Ugh, okay get off,” Tora complains. “You’re getting too heavy for this.”_

_“Heavy!” Akane exclaims indignantly, even as she gets off her brother. “I’m the perfect size for my age!”_

_Tora grins up at his sister adoringly. “If you say so.”_

_He turns to Kenma then and laughs. “Dude! What the hell happened to your hair?!”_

_Kenma hunches inward, even as Akane hits Tora’s shoulder. “Don’t laugh! I made him pretty!”_

_Tora moves closer, still grinning as he picks up one of the braids and twirls it between his fingers. “Cute.”_

_Kenma’s face grows hot, and his stomach flutters strangely._

_“You weren’t at school today. Were you sick?” Tora asks, dropping the braid and leaning back._

_Kenma bites his lip. He nods after a moment, guessing that’s as good an excuse as any._

_“He was sitting on the porch when I got back from school,” Akane explains. “So I let him in and made him eat lunch with me and then we played together! Well, I did his hair while he played his game.”_

_Kenma sits quietly, tense, waiting for Tora to scold him. It’s weird to hang out with your friend’s little sister at the house alone, isn’t it? But Tora just grins._

_“You took good care of him, huh?”_

_Akane nods solemnly._

_Mrs. Yamamoto sticks her head into the room, smiling at the three of them. “I thought I heard you come home, Taketora. How was school?”_

_“I didn’t get detention at all!” Tora says smugly._

_Mrs. Yamamoto laughs. “That’s good to hear.” She turns to Kenma, then, giving him a soft smile. “Shouldn’t you be heading home, dear? It’s getting late. Your mother will worry.”_

_Kenma lowers his head, biting his lip. Suddenly, Tora throws his arm across Kenma’s shoulders._

_“Actually, Kenma-kun is staying over tonight. He already asked his mom. She said he could.”_

_Kenma stares at Tora. Why is he doing this? Could he sense that Kenma didn’t want to go home? No, Tora isn’t that perceptive. He probably just wants Kenma to stay the night._

_That thought makes Kenma’s chest feel warm._

_“Oh, lovely,” Mrs. Yamamoto says. “I’ll prepare an extra plate for dinner.”_

_She ducks out of the room, and Tora grabs Kenma’s head, shaking it gently._

_“This is gonna be great,” he grins. “I haven’t had any friends sleep over since my second year of elementary!”_

_He looks so happy, so excited, that Kenma can’t help but give him a smile in return.]_

 

 

 

 

Kenma wakes slowly. Kiki stares back at him, almost nose to nose, as she sits on his chest. It doesn’t surprise him, anymore. Waking up to Kiki laying on him, the sound of Kuroo whistling in the shower after his early morning run or at the stove making breakfast, these are things Kenma has grown used to. They’re things he’s starting to associate with feelings of comfort, safety.

Home.

It’s been two weeks since the . . . misunderstanding in the bathroom. Kenma still cringes inwardly when he remembers it. He shouldn’t have just assumed, but he still isn’t used to people like Kuroo. He honestly appears to want nothing in return for his kindness and generosity. It doesn’t quite sit well with Kenma, to offer nothing in exchange for everything Kuroo’s done for him. But it’s a relief to know that he isn’t like those perverts out on the streets.

Kuroo acted differently for a little while, after that. He seemed nervous around Kenma, not getting too close and avoiding even accidentally touching him. Eventually Kenma grabbed his arm, sat him down and explained to him that he didn’t have to be nervous. He knows Kuroo isn’t a pervert, and he doesn’t have to walk on eggshells around Kenma.

Kenma trusts him.

To a certain extent.

Kuroo relaxed after that, though, and things have gotten easier.

Kenma has a feeling things are going to shift again, though, because Bokuto gets back from Brazil today.

“Hm, what should I wear to the victory party?” Kuroo asks, staring off into space during a lull at work.

Kenma blinks over at him, not entirely sure if that’s a rhetorical question or not. He wipes down the counter absently, having already done so twice but knowing if he takes out his new 3DS Yaku will scold him (and as amusing as it is to watch Yaku’s face turn red, it feels too bothersome today).

“It’s at Oikawa’s, so it doesn’t have to be anything too fancy. But his place _is_ really nice, so we can’t go in looking like slobs either.”

Kenma rolls his eyes. He’s never seen Kuroo look like a slob. Disheveled, yes, but slobbish? Kenma glances down at his own clothes, which are much nicer now thanks to Oikawa. He’s never dressed up for a party, before. Then again, he’s never actually been to a party, either. He wrinkles his nose at the thought of being trapped in a room full of sweaty, drunk people.

“Whatever you wear will be fine,” he says, as he can feel the anxiety rolling off Kuroo in waves.

“Yeah, okay,” Kuroo says absently, chewing on his lip.

Kenma wonders if there’s someone in particular he wants to impress.

Yaku lets them go early so they can get ready for the party, and Kuroo tries on about a dozen different outfits before settling on what he declares is the “right” one. It’s a pair of dark skinny jeans and a black shirt that’s loose but not too loose. Over this he wears a dark jean jacket, despite the fact that it’s still rather warm outside, even with the sun setting. He tries to tame his hair, to no avail.

Kenma settles for a sleeveless shirt (knowing he’d get too hot otherwise) and jean shorts. (He ignores the way Kuroo’s ears turn red when he first sees him after they’re finished getting ready.) At the last minute, he slides his 3DS into Kuroo’s jacket pocket, knowing he’ll probably need that before too long, as well.

Oikawa lives near the center of the city, in a penthouse apartment. Being the publicist for a multi-millionaire’s company has its perks, especially since he’s good at his job. Kenma feels like a tiny bug, as they approach the massive building, glittering with lights from hundreds of windows. Self-consciousness seeps in, and he remains hunched behind Kuroo, even as the other man strides confidently into the building, as if he belongs there.

The party is already in full swing when they arrive. Past the entryway, there are at least a dozen young men talking and laughing in the open living room, sitting on the two couches there or standing in compact circles. The kitchen also houses people, pouring drinks and snacking off of appetizers spread out on the island counter. There are potted plants in the corners, and a massive flat-screen TV mounted on the wall, which is playing highlights from the Volleyball World League championship, which the Japan National Team just won.

“KUROO!”

Bokuto spots Kuroo first, detaching from his group and hurrying over. He flings his arms around Kuroo, nearly lifting him off the ground in a crushing hug. Kenma steps back, giving them room, as Kuroo grips Bokuto just as tightly.

“Dude, congrats!” Kuroo says with a grin. “I knew you could do it.”

“I was pretty awesome, huh?” Bokuto says with a grin, setting Kuroo down and taking a step back. He looks to Kenma then, and his eyes brighten. “Hey, hey, hey! Welcome to the party!”

He holds up his hand, and it takes a moment for Kenma to realize he’s asking for a high-five. He tentatively presses his palm against Bokuto’s, marveling slightly at how small his hand looks against the broadness of the other man’s.

“So are you two together now or what?” Bokuto asks, glancing between them with a wide grin.

Kuroo chokes on his spit, as Kenma’s face flushes. He shakes it quickly.

“Really?!” Bokuto’s wide eyes grow wider. “But Kuroo said—”

“Why don’t we go get a drink?” Kuroo flings his arm around Bokuto’s neck, turning him around bodily to march him toward the kitchen.

Kenma hangs back, wishing he’d thought to grab his 3DS out of Kuroo’s pocket. He lingers by the door, unsure of where to go or the best place to sit that isn’t in the middle of a sea of strangers. A hand suddenly appears in front of him, holding a glass of champagne. Kenma follows the hand to its arm then to the person it’s attached to. Oikawa Tooru gives him a small smile.

“Welcome to my place. Gorgeous, isn’t it?”

Kenma takes the glass hesitantly, wondering if he poisoned it. Oikawa doesn’t appear to be in a malicious mood this time, however. His eyes are bright, his cheeks slightly flushed, and he appears genuinely glad to see Kenma there.

It’s still suspicious.

“You’ve stuck around,” Oikawa says, taking a sip from his own glass. “I’m impressed.”

Kenma shifts on his feet, wishing Oikawa would get to the point.

“But, just because you haven’t hurt him yet, doesn’t mean I trust you.” Oikawa points his finger at Kenma. “I’m still keeping an eye on you.”

Kenma blinks back at him, shoving down the anxiety that’s curling around his stomach. “Shouldn’t you be more concerned about your own secrets?”

Oikawa narrows his eyes, his smile vanishing. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he says, his voice low in a warning tone.

Kenma shrugs, taking a step back. “I mean what I said.”

He looks over to where Kuroo and Bokuto are in the kitchen, Bokuto telling some sort of story with wild arm movements. Kuroo’s watching him, a sappy half-smile curling his lips. Kenma feels a sharp pang in his chest. An odd response. Oikawa follows his gaze, and his sharp smile returns.

“Interesting.”

Kenma quickly looks back at him, trying to will his cheeks to cool. “Nothing is interesting,” he says flatly, walking past, further into the room.

He doesn’t feel like interrupting Kuroo and Bokuto, so instead he looks for a place to sit where he won’t get stepped on, sat on, spilled on, etc. Before he can find anything, a young man stops him. He’s around Kenma’s height, maybe a little shorter, one of the shortest people there.

“Hey! I haven’t seen you before!” he says with a wide grin, the alcohol on his breath and the flush in his cheeks indicating the level of his sobriety.

Kenma blinks at him.

“I’m Komi!” the young man says, sticking out his hand. “I was Bokuto’s teammate back in high school! How do you know him?”

“I don’t,” Kenma says, because, truthfully, he doesn’t know much about Bokuto. He knows he plays on the national team, he’s loud, and Kuroo’s affection for him probably runs deeper than that of a best friend.

“Oh!” Komi says, still smiling though now he appears confused.

Kenma sighs. “I’m here with Kuroo,” he explains.

“OH!” Komi says again, face brightening in recognition. “I know Kuroo! We played against his team a lot back in high school!”

Kenma doesn’t know what else to say, so he simply stands there, hoping the guy will move on.

“Well, it was cool to meet you!” Komi says, apparently sensing the awkwardness. “What was your name again?”

_I never gave it to you._

“Kenma,” Kenma replies in an effort to be polite.

“Nice to meet you, Kenma!” Komi jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “You can come hang out with me and my other teammates, if you want! We’re gonna play some cards.”

“No, thanks.”

“Okay, well, have fun!”

Komi scampers off, and Kenma beats a hasty retreat to the bathroom.

His chest feels tight, as he locates the room and shuts the door behind him. He hasn’t been in close quarters with this many people in a long time. The last thing he wants to do is go around meeting guys he’ll probably never see again, pretending to be interested in their stories. He came because Kuroo wanted him to, and now Kuroo isn’t even paying attention to him.

He tells himself that’s fine. Kuroo and Bokuto are best friends, and Kuroo has every right to want to celebrate Bokuto’s victory with him.

So why did he even ask Kenma to come?

Kenma downs the glass of champagne still in his hand, grimacing slightly at the burn. It tastes gross, and he sets the glass down on the sink counter. He’s unsure of what to do, now. Kuroo has his 3DS, and Kenma doesn’t feel like leaving the relative peace and quiet of the bathroom to retrieve it. Besides, if he does find Kuroo, Kuroo might want him to stay and play whatever game he and the rest think up.

He’s still debating when the bathroom door opens and Akaashi Keiji steps inside. He pauses when he catches sight of Kenma, black-lined eyes blinking slowly.

“I apologize. I didn’t know anyone was in here. I simply need to wash my hands.”

Kenma takes a step back, gesturing toward the sink.

Akaashi hesitates before dipping his head and stepping forward. Kenma can hear snatches of conversation and loud laughter through the open door, but he keeps his focus on Akaashi, wondering why exactly Kuroo doesn’t seem to like him.

He’s very pretty, with black hair curling around his ears and the nape of his neck, dark green eyes, and beautifully clear skin. He’s wearing a dark gray, sleeveless turtleneck and black jeans with rips in the knees. His arms are toned, fingers long. Akaashi catches him staring through the mirror and quirks his eyebrow.

“Like what you see?” he asks quietly, amusement lingering beneath his tone.

Kenma’s face burns. “Kuroo doesn’t like you very much,” he says, deflecting.

“Mm,” Akaashi turns from the sink to dry his hands. He observes Kenma for a moment, gaze calculating. “Is that an observation or are you asking me something?”

Kenma leans back against the wall, pressing his hands against it behind his back. “Is Kuroo in love with Bokuto?” The question comes out before he can stop it. He bites his lip, knowing he’s showing vulnerability to someone who looks as though he could eat him alive, if he wanted.

But Akaashi simply tilts his head, regarding him silently for a moment before responding. “I’m not entirely sure,” he admits. “But I know he used to be, at least.”

Kenma blinks, wondering what happened but not sure if Akaashi will tell him if he asks.

Akaashi glances toward the door before looking back at him. “I suppose if you’re planning on living with Kuroo-san long-term it would benefit you to know what happened between us. Everyone else in our friend group knows.”

He steps over to the door to shut it. Kenma’s heartbeat quickens. He knows he’s probably safe, but being in close quarters with a stranger has him on edge out of habit. He stands stiffly, tension aching through his muscles, but Akaashi remains by the door, staring at a spot on the wall.

“Bokuto and Kuroo-san are a year older than me. They got accepted into the same university and played for the same team team there. Bokuto . . . has mood swings that can affect his performance in many areas. He was anxious about living with a stranger who might not understand him, especially when others on the team didn’t know how to deal with him. Kuroo-san suggested they move in together. He knew how to handle Bokuto, knew what to say and do when his moods dropped. It appeared to be the perfect arrangement.”

Akaashi’s voice is low, soothing. Kenma finds himself relaxing, as he listens to the story. Akaashi leans back against the door, tilting his head to squint up at the ceiling, as though recalling details.

“I’m not sure when it started, exactly. But when you’ve been best friends as long as they have, they were bound to get curious. Their relationship grew physical. I don’t know exactly how far they went, but I know they got each other off, made out, and were intimate in ways that meant a lot to both of them. But, according to what Bokuto told me, it was all just a friends with benefits arrangement. They didn’t have feelings for each other.”

Kenma bites his lip, starting to see where this is going.

“I came to the university once I graduated high school. I’d always had an interest in Bokuto, and seeing how he matured and grew while we were apart strengthened that interest. But I knew about their situation, so when I approached Bokuto with my feelings, I mentioned I didn’t plan on breaking them up. I simply wanted to be honest. But Bokuto informed me that there was nothing to break up. That he and Kuroo-san were just having fun together.”

Akaashi lowers his head, gaze flickering to the floor. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have believed him so readily, but I wanted him. It was only later that I found out that Kuroo-san _had_ developed feelings and saw the situation as completely different. He confronted me about taking Bokuto from him, and I told him what Bokuto told me. Perhaps that was a mistake as well.”

Kenma swallows hard, able to imagine how heartbroken Kuroo must have been. How used he must have felt. His chest aches.

“But . . . if you told him the truth, why isn’t he angry with Bokuto, as well?” he finds himself asking.

Akaashi blinks, lifting his gaze. “The two of them never said they were together. Kuroo-san only assumed that they were because of their exclusivity, and Bokuto never saying otherwise. It was a misunderstanding, and Kuroo-san knows that.”

Kenma frowns. “But if Bokuto is Kuroo’s best friend, he should’ve known something like that might happen. Did he apologize?”

Akaashi looks away. “We never told him. For all I know, Bokuto still doesn’t know how Kuroo-san truly felt.”

Kenma pushes off the wall. “That’s not right. Kuroo won’t be able to fully move on until Bokuto apologizes. He’s storing up all his hurt and anger and projecting that onto you, when he should’ve dealt with it with Bokuto a long time ago.”

Akaashi purses his lips. “I don’t disagree. But it’s not my place. Kuroo-san could have confronted Bokuto about it, but he didn’t. I have my theories as to why, but if you want the truth, you’ll have to ask him.”

Kenma stares. “It doesn’t bother you that Kuroo still treats you like it’s your fault?”

“I don’t care what Kuroo-san thinks of me,” Akaashi says, meeting Kenma’s gaze. “It doesn’t affect my relationship with Bokuto. And, to be honest, I’d rather he hate me than hate Bokuto.”

He turns toward the door, exiting the bathroom. Kenma stares after him, reeling somewhat with all this new information. He can understand wanting to avoid confrontation, but this thing that happened with Bokuto is still hurting Kuroo. He might pretend like everything’s fine, that things between him and Bokuto are normal, but it’s evident in his treatment of Akaashi, an innocent third party, that something is wrong. He needs to address it.

Kenma knows it’s not his place. And, honestly, the last thing he wants is to get mixed up in other people’s drama. But Kuroo’s helped him. He’s been kind to him. Shouldn’t Kenma return the favor?

Groaning, Kenma turns and drops his forehead against the wall.

_It’s none of my business. Just let it go._

By the time he returns to the party, everyone has joined in the game of cards. Or rather, there are a few games going on simultaneously. Everyone seems quite drunk, loud laughter bursting out frequently. Akaashi has found his way back to Bokuto and is sitting beside him, beneath Bokuto’s arm that’s flung around his shoulders.

Kuroo and Oikawa are leaning against each other, clutching their stomachs as they laugh at something. Kenma curls his fingers into the cuffs of his shorts, that strange ache returning. It can’t be jealousy, because Kenma never laughs like that, face turning red, gasping for breath, and has no desire to look so foolish. But there’s something about the way Kuroo’s leaning so casually against Oikawa, his face practically hidden in Oikawa’s shoulder, which stirs up a certain desire in Kenma.

_“I wanted to feel close to you.”_

Squaring his shoulders, Kenma takes deliberate steps over to the group. They’re all too caught up in their antics to notice him, anyway. He sets himself down on Kuroo’s other side, waiting for him to notice. Hoping that he does.

A minute later, Kuroo’s lifting his head, wiping tears from his eyes. He blinks in surprise when he sees Kenma, then a wide grin spreads across his face. It’d be creepy if Kenma didn’t know that behind that delinquent look is a softhearted nerd.

“There you are! You disappeared on me!” Kuroo exclaims.

“Parties aren’t really my thing,” Kenma admits with a small shrug.

“Ah, sorry. We can go, if you want,” Kuroo offers, attempting to straighten his face.

Kenma reaches over and takes the 3DS from Kuroo’s jacket pocket. “It’s fine,” he says. “I have this.” He holds up the console.

Kuroo’s brows furrow. “You’re just going to play that?”

“It’s fine,” Kenma insists.

“Kenma.” Kuroo leans in close, putting his face inches from Kenma’s. Kenma’s breath hitches without his consent, his face growing warm. “It’s okay if you want to go,” he says, his face and tone serious.

Kenma bites his lip. He doesn’t want to be selfish, to take Kuroo away from his friends. But after what he just found out, the only thing he wants to do is shield Kuroo from those that cause him pain, even if he doesn’t realize it on a conscious level. He wants to help bring Kuroo peace . . . and he can’t do that in a room full of rowdy athletes.

“Okay,” he answers softly.

Kuroo nods, leaning back. He nudges Oikawa to get his attention. “I’m gonna take Kenma home. I’ll see ya later.”

Oikawa glances around Kuroo to Kenma, raising his eyebrows. “Sure, but we were going to re-watch the final match later. You’re going to miss it.”

Kuroo grins. “It’s not like I haven’t seen it before.”

He gets to his feet, staggering slightly. Kenma quickly stands, slotting himself against Kuroo’s side in order to steady him. Kuroo looks down at him in surprise.

“Thanks,” he says wondrously.

Kenma looks away.

“Hey, Kou!” Kuroo calls out to Bokuto. “I’m heading out, bro! Catch you tomorrow, alright?”

“Dude! Totally!” Bokuto calls back, waving with his free hand. “We’re gonna hit the beach. You and Kenma should come!”

Kuroo grins. “Sure, shoot me a text!”

Akaashi says nothing, though he meets Kenma’s gaze when he glances at him. Kenma looks away first, guiding Kuroo toward the door, where they slip on their shoes. Once outside, Kenma takes Kuroo’s hand. Lacing their fingers together, he leads him back toward their apartment. Despite the late hour, there are still people milling about. Kenma sticks close to Kuroo’s side, feeling safer in his presence, even though the man’s steps are uneven. He knows if it came down to it, Kuroo would be useless in a fight in this condition, but still . . .

“Your hand is so small,” Kuroo says in awe, glancing down at their hands.

“Not that small,” Kenma murmurs, rolling his eyes.

“Smaller than mine . . .” Kuroo gives his hand a squeeze. “I like it. It feels right.”

Kenma hides his blushing face behind his hair, looking away with a soft cough.

“Oh, shit, are you cold?!”

Before Kenma can protest, Kuroo’s released his hand and taken off his jacket, dropping it over Kenma’s bare shoulders. He picks up Kenma’s hand again with a nod.

“There,” he says. “That’ll do.”

It’s actually too warm, now, but Kenma grabs the lapels of the jacket to tuck them beneath his chin anyway, breathing in Kuroo’s scent that lingers on the collar.

It takes them longer to get back to the apartment than it did to reach the party, mainly because Kuroo feels the need to greet almost everyone they pass and if they have a dog he spends a few minutes telling it what a good boy it is. It’s endearing, if a little annoying, but Kenma feels relieved when they finally make it back home.

He helps Kuroo to the bedroom, dropping the jacket on his desk chair and turning back to find Kuroo stuck in his shirt.

“Ack,” he says, hands flailing.

Kenma shakes his head. “Are you always this helpless while drunk?” he asks, tugging the shirt off his arms and dropping it to the side.

Kuroo gives him a rueful grin. “Sorry.”

Kenma hesitates, then. He knows he should leave, go back to his place on the couch and let Kuroo go to sleep. But he lingers. Reaching up, he carefully brushes some of Kuroo’s wild hair out of his face. Kuroo freezes, his grin growing quizzical.

“Kenma?”

“Why didn’t you tell Bokuto he hurt you?”

The question is out before Kenma can stop it. He bites his lip, as Kuroo’s eyes widen, and he suddenly grows very still.

“You talked to Akaashi.”

Kenma drops his gaze to the floor. “He told me what happened. Why you hate him so much.”

Kuroo sighs, running his hand through his hair. With a disgruntled noise, he falls back against the bed, frowning up at the ceiling.

“I don’t . . . _hate_ him.”

“You’re projecting your hurt feelings onto him even though he didn’t do anything wrong. I think it’s because you haven’t told Bokuto so it really isn’t resolved, even though you . . . probably think you’ve moved past it . . .”

Kenma stops, afraid he’s said too much.

_He’s going to get mad. He’s going to throw me out. I should leave before he—_

No. He isn’t going to run away anymore.

There’s a long beat of silence before Kuroo speaks, again. “Bokuto is . . . sensitive.”

Kenma nods. _Mood swings._

Kuroo drops his arm over his face. “At the time . . . he was doing really well. With his classes, with volleyball . . . even Akaashi seemed to make him ten times happier. I don’t know. Maybe he . . . understood Bokuto better than I did, or something. But, anyway . . . I didn’t confront him about what happened because I knew he’d take it badly. He’s not a bad guy, Bokuto. He’s got a good heart. If he knew how much he’d hurt me . . . it would’ve devastated him. He would’ve hated himself for . . . who knows how long. And I knew everything would suffer for it. His grades, his game, his relationship with Akaashi.”

Kuroo sighs, lifting his arm and placing it above his head onto the mattress. “I didn’t want that to happen.”

Kenma purses his lips. “So instead you suffered.”

Kuroo grins crookedly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Better me than him.”

“That’s bullshit.”

Kuroo shakes his head, and for some reason that makes Kenma angry. He climbs up onto the bed, his chest tightening, his throat closing. To think Kuroo has been holding all this in for two years just to spare someone’s feelings . . . it’s stupid!

“Hey,” Kenma says sharply, sitting beside Kuroo and poking his ribs hard with a finger.

Kuroo flinches. “Ow.”

“It’s not your responsibility to protect Bokuto’s feelings. Not at the expense of your own.” Kenma scowls down at him. “I get that you like taking care of people, but at a certain point you have to start taking care of yourself too, and this thing between you is eating you up inside, isn’t it? That’s why you can barely stand to look at Akaashi, even though you know it isn’t his fault.”

Kuroo wrinkles his nose. “Don’t be mean to me. I’m drunk.”

“I’m not being mean. You need to talk to Bokuto.”

Kuroo falls silent, but he doesn’t try to argue. Kenma feels exhausted. From the emotional stress, from all the talking. He gets off the bed.

“Think about it, at least,” he says, gentler this time.

He turns toward the door.

“Hey . . . Kenma?”

Kuroo’s voice is soft, vulnerable. Kenma turns slightly, glancing over his shoulder to see Kuroo propped up on one elbow, looking solemn.

“Thank you,” he says, quietly, genuinely.

Kenma’s face burns.

“Go to sleep.”

He shuts the door behind him, inhales shakily past the tightness in his chest, and makes his way toward the couch.

 

 

 

 

 

Really, the last thing Kenma wants to do after all that is go to the beach, but after making Kuroo leave the party early and then lecturing him while he was drunk, Kenma supposes he has a couple things to make up for.

So he pulls on some swimming shorts and a loose tank top, slathers on the most powerful sunscreen available, grabs his 3DS and his new sun hat, and follows Kuroo down to the train station.

The other is quiet, as the train rattles down the tracks toward the coast. Kenma wonders if he should be worried, but Kuroo appears more thoughtful than angry. So Kenma leaves him be, turning his attention to his 3DS.

“I’m not going to talk to him today,” Kuroo says finally, when they’re almost to their station. “It’ll bring down the mood of the day. But, I will. I’ll talk to him.” He nods his head firmly.

It doesn’t seem like he needs a response, so Kenma continues playing his game.

The train pulls to a stop a few minutes later, and he follows Kuroo out into the bright sunlight. Squinting, Kenma grabs a pair of sunglasses from the bag slung over Kuroo’s shoulder, fitting them over his face.

“HEY, HEY, HEY!”

Bokuto’s loud voice carries over the noise of the station, and Kenma catches a glimpse of him waving both his arms over his head. Akaashi is, of course, standing beside him. As well as Yaku, and a tall silver-haired young man Kenma’s never seen before. This new person gasps excitedly once he sees Kenma, however, and rushes forward.

“Are you Kenma?!” he asks, his voice loud and excitable.

Kenma reels back, blinking up at him and wondering who the hell this guy even is.

“Not so loud, Lev,” Kuroo says with a laugh, holding up a hand to make him back away. “Don’t scare him off.”

“He’s so little and cute; I want to pick him up!”

Kenma pales. “Please, don’t.”

Lev laughs, happy and almost child-like. Kuroo chuckles, though he tries to disguise it as a cough. Kenma shoots him a glare.

“Sorry about him,” Yaku says, hurrying forward. He elbows the giant in the side. “He really doesn’t know how to behave sometimes.”

Kuroo smirks. “Maybe you should’ve brought your whip.”

Yaku’s face turns red, even as Lev turns to him with wide eyes. “You said we weren’t supposed to tell—OW!”

Yaku kicks Lev in the leg hard enough to cause him to dance away, rubbing his shin.

“Kenma, meet Lev. Yaku’s boyfriend,” Kuroo introduces with a grin.

Kenma stares, thinking that’s the most oddly paired duo he’s ever seen in his life. Where Yaku is short and compact, Lev is all leg and arms, tall and gangly. They look like something out of a comedy, especially with Lev hopping around on one foot while Yaku scolds him about keeping their private lives _private_.

The makings of a headache twitch along Kenma’s forehead.

“Come on, come on, let’s go before all the good spots are taken!” Bokuto calls, gesturing for them to follow him and Akaashi toward the beach.

They find a spot not far from the water but away from most of the screaming kids. Kuroo lays out a blanket and Akaashi sets up an umbrella over it, but as soon as that’s done, Kuroo, Bokuto, and Lev are whipping off their shirts and heading down to the water with hoots and hollers. Akaashi follows more carefully, taking care to place his shirt on the blanket instead of just throwing it in the sand. But soon he’s gone as well.

Yaku hesitates beside Kenma, even as he starts removing his shirt. “You’re not getting in?”

Kenma shakes his head. Too much effort goes into swimming in the ocean. Constantly fighting the tides, waves knocking you over, sand getting everywhere . . . It’s all very uncomfortable and unpleasant. Instead, he pulls out his 3DS and holds it up for Yaku to see.

Yaku grins. “Gotcha. Well, you’re missing out! Don’t hesitate to join us later, if you want!”

“I doubt I will, but thanks, I guess . . .”

With a wave, Yaku takes off toward the water, leaping onto Lev in order to knock him down beneath the waves, as the others look on and cackle. Kenma shakes his head, drawing his knees up, as he restarts his game.

He gets caught up in the levels, gaining achievements and battling bosses, and he loses track of time. The sun is hot, but not stifling with the ocean breeze, and the umbrella provides some nice shade. Eventually the kids stop screaming too, and the only sound is the distant laughter and shouting of those in the water. Easy to tune out.

His peace is interrupted by rain of cold, salty droplets spraying over him. He tilts his head back and frowns up at Kuroo, who greets him with a grin. “Hey, you’ve been up here for hours. Come join us!”

Kenma shakes his head. “I don’t want to.”

Kuroo pouts. “Come on, Bokuto found a net. We’re going to play some volleyball!”

Kenma purses his lips. “I don’t want to do that, either.”

“Please? Kou’s already chosen Akaashi as his team’s setter. I don’t trust a random person to grab for our team.”

Kenma’s face feels warm. “You trust me? You’ve never seen me play.”

“But you know volleyball,” Kuroo says, holding his hand out. “We’ll only play one set. First to twenty-five wins.”

He’s looking down at him so hopefully, and Kenma remembers how Kuroo used to play in university. He remembers what happened to make him quit. He probably hasn’t played since then. Sighing, Kenma saves his game and sets the console inside Kuroo’s bag.

“Only one set.”

Kuroo beams happily, as he takes Kenma’s hand and pulls him to his feet. Kenma sets his sunglasses and sun hat aside, wondering if he even remembers how to play. It’s been so long . . .

The net is set up on the far side of the beach, further up the bank where the sand is soft. Bokuto, Akaashi, and Lev are already on one side, while Yaku waits with his arms crossed on the other.

_Isn’t this a little unbalanced?_

“Bokuto wanted me on his team, but I told him he had to take Lev because it isn’t fair for his team to have a national player _and_ a libero as good as me,” Yaku says with a smug smile.

“You haven’t played since high school!” Kuroo exclaims with a laugh.

“Maybe not, but I’ll bet you 600 yen that I’m still better at receives than Lev.”

Kenma blinks, as Kuroo places him in front of the net. He isn’t entirely sure how he’s supposed to play against someone like Bokuto when he doesn’t even know what Kuroo and Yaku’s styles are. Akaashi’s played with Bokuto before. He knows what type of tosses to give him. Kuroo and Yaku have gone up against Bokuto and Akaashi before, too. They know how they play. Kenma’s new to this scene. Without time to observe, he isn’t sure how he’s supposed to be an asset.

“Don’t overthink it,” Kuroo says to him quietly. “We’re just here to have fun.”

“Dude, Oikawa’s going to _kill_ us when he finds out we’re playing volleyball without him,” Bokuto says with a laugh, as Akaashi twirls a volleyball in his hands.

Kenma wonders where they even found it.

Kuroo shrugs. “His fault for bailing on us so he can fuck his boyfriend all day.”

Lev’s eyes grow wide on the other side of the net. “You think they do it _all_ day?”

Bokuto laughs louder. “Some people do!” he exclaims, hands on his hips. “If they’ve got great stamina.” He throws Akaashi a wink that is not at all subtle.

Akaashi flushes a faint pink, and Kenma glances over to see a muscle twitch in Kuroo’s jaw.

“Yo! Shut up and serve already,” he calls, his voice still light, masking whatever emotion he just felt. “Or are you stalling because you know you’re going to lose?” He smirks, as Bokuto abruptly stops laughing.

“Okay, Akaashi! Let’s get serious!”

“I’m always serious.”

Kenma guesses that’s Akaashi’s version of a joke.

“SERVICE ACE!” Bokuto shouts, and Akaashi tosses the ball into the air.

It doesn’t take long for Kenma to realize that, even with Lev’s terrible receives, they’re unevenly matched. Akaashi’s tosses are precise, his receives well coordinated, and Bokuto slams every ball with every ounce of strength he has. Kuroo and Yaku are quick and clever. Yaku picks up nearly every receive, and Kuroo can read Bokuto well enough to know where to jump to either block the spikes or send them toward Yaku. But even with their combined efforts, Bokuto’s power knocks them back again and again and the point gap widens.

Kenma struggles to keep up. He’s out of practice, out of shape. The sun beats down on him, making him feel sweaty and gross on top of everything else. His lungs are burning, muscles aching, but he hasn’t given Kuroo the perfect toss yet. They’re not quite in sync. His tosses aren’t as terrible as he thought they’d be. Muscle memory kicks in, as well as his game sense, as the familiarity of the court brings up matches from his past.

But it’s still not good enough. Lev isn’t great at blocking, but Akaashi is, and only half of Kuroo’s spikes make it through, while Bokuto’s continue to blast through every opening.

Normally Kenma wouldn’t care that much, but it’s frustrating, not being able to give Kuroo the tosses he needs, the tosses he deserves. So he keeps watching, slowing everything down in his head into calculations and strategy. This far into the game, he has a feel for Kuroo’s style, of Yaku’s, and even those across the net. He pays attention. He watches; he waits.

Then, finally, he sees it.

“Akaashi’s legs are getting tired,” Kenma murmurs to Kuroo during a water break. “He’s not jumping as high as before.”

“Yeah? I thought I noticed that,” Kuroo says, wiping sweat from his face with a towel.

“Lev’s easy to manipulate, and Bokuto isn’t putting as much effort into his blocks as his spikes; he’s relying on Akaashi to take care of that.”

Kuroo smirks slowly. “What are you proposing?”

Kenma looks down at his hands. His fingers ache, and his legs are trembling, but he can do it. This one last toss that will connect. It doesn’t matter if they win or lose. He knows they’re probably going to lose whether or not they make this play. But he wants to try it anyway. For Kuroo.

“I’m goint to feint left, but then I want you to go to the right. Wait for Akaashi to jump, then hit the ball over him.”

“A time difference attack,” Kuroo says, his eyes brightening.

Kenma nods.

“Yo! Come on! We’ve got a game to win!” Bokuto calls impatiently.

Kenma turns toward the net, Kuroo following him close behind. He faces Akaashi, blinking back the sweat dripping into his eyes. Although he tied his hair back into a tail at the nape of his neck, strands have escaped and are plastered to his face. Akaashi doesn’t look much better, the humidity making his hair curl even more.

“You look flushed, Kenma-san,” he observes quietly.

Kenma doesn’t respond, knowing Akaashi’s trying to provoke him.

Lev serves. He somehow manages to aim it directly at Yaku, running up to the net with a grimace. Yaku ducks under it, receiving it cleanly. Kenma gets underneath it, and Kuroo heads for his left. Lev falls for it immediately, leaping to block him. But Kuroo takes a sharp turn to the right, as the ball hits Kenma’s fingertips.

He leans back, flinging the ball behind him.

The arch is perfect.

Akaashi jumps, Kuroo stalls, then leaps into the air, higher than he’s jumped this entire time, and slams the ball down into the sand directly behind Akaashi.

“HA!” he shouts, as Lev scrambles to get the ball.

He turns from the net, giving Kenma a triumphant grin. “We did it! You felt that, right?”

What Kenma feels is a shiver down his spine, as his limbs tremble. He feels much too hot and light-headed. He stares at Kuroo, as he lifts his hand for a high-five, completely frozen.

He did feel it. The connection.

In that moment, they were teammates. They were partners. Moving together with perfect synchrony.

And it sparks a memory. Of another time when he was someone’s teammate. Someone’s partner.

That moment when he gave the perfect toss that turned into the perfect spike that won the game. And the team had celebrated, cheered, grabbed him around the waist and spun him around, pressing their cheeks together . . .

No, only one person did that.

_“We did it, Kenma! We won!”_

Then came a pair of lips, smacking against his flushed skin. A victory kiss.

Kenma lifts his hand to his cheek, the world spinning around him. There’s a pressure on his chest that’s growing heavier, cutting off his air. He can’t breathe.

“Kenma?”

The voice sounds very far away.

_Tora?_

“Kenma!”

The sand comes rushing toward him and everything goes black.

 

 

 

 

 

When Kenma opens his eyes, he’s back on the blanket underneath the shade of the umbrella, and there are five faces staring down at him with varying levels of worry.

“Kenma-san! You’re alive!” Lev cries out in relief.

Yaku elbows his stomach. “We didn’t think you were _dead_.”

“You overheated,” Akaashi says calmly. “I said you looked flushed.”

“Kuroo carried you over here,” Bokuto explains. “He was really freaking out!”

“No, I wasn’t,” Kuroo hisses at him, before looking back at Kenma apologetically. “I was just . . . worried, that’s all. Are you okay?”

Kenma stares up at him, swallowing hard. _I’m a hypocrite._

“Can you sit up?”

Kenma props himself up on his elbows, feeling weak. Kuroo places his hand on his back, guiding him into a seated position. Akaashi hands him a bottle of water, which Kuroo then hands to Kenma. He holds it in both his hands, telling himself to drink it slowly.

“That was a pretty cool play you guys did,” Yaku offers. “Too bad we were too far behind in points for it to matter much.”

“It was a great play,” Kuroo agrees. “Kinda made me wish you and I had played back in high school.”

“I’m going to go see what kind of food they have on the boardwalk,” Akaashi says. “Bokuto?”

“What? Oh, yeah, coming!”

Yaku and Lev follow the other two, as Kuroo settles down on the blanket beside Kenma. He still looks worried, face pinched, as he chews on his bottom lip.

“It’s not your fault,” Kenma assures him quietly.

“I forced you to play.”

“I could’ve said no.”

“I goaded you into it.”

“You didn’t.”

“I kind of did.”

Kenma places his hand over Kuroo’s mouth to shut him up. “Kuroo. You've never forced me to do anything.”

Kuroo narrows his eyes, and Kenma stares back at him, until finally Kuroo nods, and Kenma moves his hand away.

“I had fun,” Kuroo admits softly. “I had a lot of fun. Thank you.”

Kenma looks away. “It’s really hot,” he complains, desperate to change the subject. “Can we go home now?”

“Go home?” Kuroo repeats, sounding surprised.

Kenma glances sidelong at him. “Yes.”

Kuroo grins slowly. “Yeah, yeah we can go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://shions-heart.tumblr.com/


	5. One Step Forward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mmmm I'm not sure I like how this chapter turned out, but I did write it over the course of 3 days in which I was physically exhausted, had a migraine, and was mentally exhausted, respectively. So, I may be judging it too harshly. /shrug emoji
> 
> that said, there is some explicit content at the very beginning of this chapter. if that's not your thing, Control + F to "He relaxes against the mattress"
> 
> Enjoy~

He’s nestled between two slender legs, pressing his lips against the warm, smooth skin of an inner thigh. He places open-mouthed kisses on it, feeling how the skin quivers beneath his tongue. He takes a small bite and listens to the soft whine that emanates from the owner of the legs. Lifting his head, he looks up the length of the trembling body to the flushed face of Kenma.

His lips are wet, slightly parted, as he gasps for breath. His hair sticks to the sides of his face, and his hands are clenched in the sheets of Kuroo’s bed. Licking his lips, Kuroo moves forward, pressing kisses along Kenma’s torso, until he gets to his neck. He buries his face there, grabbing some soft skin between his teeth and sucking, hard. Kenma gasps and squirms beneath him, as Kuroo takes their dripping members in his hand and begins to stroke up and down.

Heat travels through him, and a tight ache grows between his legs. Kenma’s on his stomach, arching his back to press his ass against Kuroo’s hips, as Kuroo kisses a trail down the length of his spine, hands running slowly over his slender thighs and hips.

“Kuroo,” Kenma whimpers, his voice thin and needy.

Kuroo’s body throbs with painful want, his heart thudding rapidly in his chest. Kenma fills his vision; he’s facing him once more, head thrown back, pleasure etched across his face, as his body tremors beneath Kuroo’s.

“Kenma,” Kuroo gasps. “Kenma . . .”

The ache grows stronger, white hot, burning through him. Kenma gives a small cry of ecstasy, and Kuroo twitches in response, eyes flying open.

He’s lying in bed, alone. Pale light from the sunrise bathes his room in soft blue hues. He’s sweaty, breathing hard, like he just ran a marathon, and the ache from before is ten times worse. Lifting his sheets, he blinks down at the erection straining against the material of his pajama pants. It’s already leaked a damp spot on the fabric, spreading wider as Kuroo watches.

Biting his lip, Kuroo reaches down hesitantly. He’s had dreams like this before, but they’ve mostly involved faceless people. He’s often had Bokuto, as well, and once, during a very confusing time, Oikawa.

_I can’t be thinking of Kenma, like this._

After what happened in the bathroom a few weeks ago, Kuroo’s been doing his best to keep his attraction to Kenma in check. He doesn’t want Kenma to think he expects anything from him. He wants Kenma to feel safe, here, and to not be worried about Kuroo trying anything.

Of course, if Kenma _wants_ him to . . .

No, he can’t go down that rabbit hole. That will lead to hopes and desires he doesn’t want to impose on Kenma. He squeezes his eyes shut, feeling like a pervert. Again.

As he wraps his hand around his cock, he tries to think of one of those faceless people. His body shudders at the touch, and the heat pulses through him once more, as he starts to tug on himself, quickly. The pre-cum already dripping from his tip makes the movement smoother, and he pants through his open mouth, focusing on the touch of a faceless being.

It doesn’t help. The ache begins to stagnate. He needs a different image to finish. Somewhat reluctantly, he pulls up a familiar one. It’s a memory. Of a broad, calloused hand wrapped around him, a smiling mouth moving over his nose, cheeks, and lips. He recalls the sound of a rough growl of desire, his lips caught between the teeth of another, as a warm, muscular body grinds against his.

His hand moves faster, as he remembers the hungry kisses, the groping hands, his name spoken with a moan.

Bokuto’s moan.

“Ah, shit, fuck,” Kuroo gasps, as he spills over his hand, his body stiffening as it quivers. The pleasure washes over him, bright and sharp, before receding slowly into a faint buzz.

He relaxes against the mattress, panting softly. He grimaces, then, as the guilt hits him.

Thinking of Bokuto isn’t much better than thinking of Kenma.

He glances at the clock by his bed. The blue numbers stare back at him: 06:34.

He usually wakes at six for his morning run, but the last thing he wants to do right now is get out of bed and exercise. He’s already sticky and overheated. He needs a shower.

It’s an effort to pull himself out of bed, but he manages it. Shuffling out into the hall, he glances toward the living room where Kenma’s asleep on the couch. At some point during the night he must have kicked off his blanket, because it’s in a heap on the floor. Kuroo’s shirt that he wears to sleep has ridden up to his stomach, revealing his boxer-briefs and slender legs tangled around Kiki, who’s curled up between them.

_Fuck._

Turning away quickly, Kuroo hurries into the bathroom and turns on the water.

The shower helps clear his head, and he feels more or less better by the time he steps into the kitchen to make breakfast. Kiki rubs against his legs, meowing for food, and Kuroo can’t help but grin, as he crouches to scratch her under the chin.

“Hey, girl. You think I’m a good person, right?”

She rubs her face against his hand before walking over to her food bowl, looking at him expectantly. Kuroo shakes his head at her but pours out her food. He strokes her back gently, as she digs in, before standing and returning to his own breakfast.

“Ah, I’m out of eggs. Is plain rice okay?” he calls into the living room. “I promise I’ll pick up some more eggs tonight.”

Kenma doesn’t answer, so Kuroo assumes that means plain is fine. He whistles softly under his breath, as he works, enjoying the domestic feel of cooking for two.

When seven-thirty rolls around, and Kenma still hasn’t made an appearance, Kuroo steps into the living room.

“Hey, your food is going to get cold,” he says to the limp body on the couch. He frowns, as Kenma doesn’t stir. _He’s usually awake by now . . ._

“Kenma? We’ve got work in half an hour, you gotta eat.” Kuroo steps around the couch, crouching down in front of Kenma’s face. His frown deepens, as he notices Kenma’s cheeks look flushed, and his hair is sticking to his forehead. Reaching out tentatively, he brushes the back of his knuckles against Kenma’s forehead.

“Shit, you’re burning up.”

Kenma opens his eyes partially, peering out at Kuroo through slits. “Kuroo?” His voice sounds cracked and hoarse.

“Stay here,” Kuroo says, moving to stand. “I’ll call my doctor, see if I can make an appointment.”

Kenma grabs Kuroo’s wrist before he can go, shaking his head. “No doctor,” he rasps out. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Kuroo says flatly.

Kenma buries his face into his pillow, coughing. “I just need to sleep.”

Kuroo hesitates. His instincts are to take Kenma to the doctor, but he can’t force him to go. He contemplates calling his mom, but he doesn’t want to bother her, especially if she’s already at work. Heading back into the kitchen, he opens the pantry and gets down the basket of medicine he keeps there. He finds something for a cough and fever and takes it and a glass of water over to the couch.

“Sit up and take this,” he says, firmly.

Kenma groans but slowly sits upright. He blinks at the pills and water in Kuroo’s hands before reaching out to take them.

“Do you want me to call in?” Kuroo asks worriedly, not wanting to leave Kenma here by himself.

Kenma shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he insists, his voice a little clearer now thanks to the water. He coughs into his wrist.

Kuroo can’t help himself. He reaches down and brushes some of Kenma’s hair away from his face, fingers lingering in the strands. “I’ll leave my phone with you,” he says. “Call Yaku if you need me, okay?”

Kenma nods, looking miserable and not at all “fine.”

Kuroo sighs, glancing toward the kitchen. “I’ll put breakfast in the fridge. Eat it later if you get hungry, okay?”

Kenma nods again, setting the glass on the coffee table and moving to lie back down. Kuroo bends to pick up the blanket, draping it over Kenma once more. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?”

Kenma frowns at him over the edge of the blanket.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Kuroo sighs. He chews on his lip, lingering even so. It doesn’t seem too serious . . . it’s probably just a cold. But, still, it doesn’t feel right to just leave Kenma here alone and vulnerable.

He goes back to the kitchen to box up the breakfast and put it in the fridge. He grabs the medicine and a washcloth, wetting it with cool water, before heading back to set the medicine on the coffee table and the cloth over Kenma’s forehead.

“The code is 1117. Promise me that you’ll call if you feel worse or if you need anything,” he says, placing his phone beside the medicine.

Kenma’s eyes are already closed, his breathing sounding labored. Kuroo reaches down to adjust the cloth, making sure it covers Kenma’s forehead well.

“I’ll be back later,” he says, ignoring the tightness in his chest.

 

 

 

 

 

He’s hopelessly distracted at work, worried about Kenma and hoping he’s drinking enough water and eating. He borrows Yaku’s phone to check in with Kenma, but all he gets are monosyllabic answers to his questions, which doesn’t really tell him much at all. He manages to keep up a front for the customers, but the stress wears on him and by the time lunch comes around, he picks at his food with no appetite, his stomach in knots.

“Dude, relax,” Bokuto says, reaching over to pat his back. “Kenma’s going to be fine!”

“Honestly, I haven’t seen you this worked up since Kiki got sick,” Oikawa observes lightly.

“I care about him,” Kuroo says helplessly. “And I hate that I have to be here, and he’s all alone when he’s feeling like shit.” He glances at his watch. “Do you think I have enough time to bring him some soup and come back before my break is over?”

“Dude, why don’t you just ask Yaku for the rest of the day off?” Bokuto asks. “I’m sure he’ll be fine with it!”

“I’m kinda . . . in a tight spot right now,” Kuroo admits with a grimace. “Financially.” _Paying for two people is more expensive than I thought it’d be . . ._

Oikawa holds up a hand. “I’ll take care of it,” he says, whipping out his phone.

Kuroo narrows his eyes at him. “Take care of what?”

“Kenma. I’ll have some soup delivered, along with the best caretaker I know.”

“You’re gonna ask _your mom_ to take care of Kenma?” Kuroo asks incredulously, pretty sure the woman is overseas for work, now that he thinks about it.

Oikawa sticks out his tongue. “Fine, the second-best. Don’t worry, Tetsun! Kenma will be in good hands.”

Kuroo has no idea what that means, but he supposes he should be grateful. “Thanks,” he says genuinely. “I know you don’t like him very much, so it means a lot to me.”

“Who says I don’t like him?” Oikawa asks, raising an eyebrow.

Kuroo fixes him with a pointed look, which Oikawa waves off.

“I just want to make sure he’s good for you, that’s all,” he insists. “He’s stuck around, so that gives him points, but he’s still hiding something.”

“He seems to care about you too, at least,” Akaashi speaks up, lifting his gaze from his food.

Kuroo remembers the scolding he received after Bokuto’s victory party. His neck feels warm, and he rubs the back of it self-consciously.

“You two are great together!” Bokuto exclaims. “He’s super cute, too! You should totally ask him out!” He grins widely, looking pleased with his suggestion.

Kuroo’s stomach flips over itself. “Ah, ha, maybe,” he says with a weak smile.

The truth is, as much as he’d like to broach the subject with Kenma, it doesn’t feel like the right time. Kenma’s still healing from whatever happened to him, and Kuroo’s still wrestling with residual emotions from what happened with Bokuto. They’re both vulnerable, and he doesn’t want history to repeat itself.

Speaking of which . . .

He glances sidelong at Bokuto, as the guy turns back to his food. He knows they need to talk about what happened. Kenma was right when he said Kuroo won’t be able to move past it until things are resolved. But the thought of bringing it up makes him feel nauseous.

In the end, he lets Bokuto go without mentioning anything. The café isn’t the right place for such a talk, anyway.

Kuroo tells himself he’s not being a coward. He’s just being smart.

At the end of his shift, he hurries home. Stopping by the corner store, he buys some more medicine and ingredients for soup, along with some tissues and a couple horror movies. He’s not a fan himself (shit gives him nightmares more often than not), but he knows Kenma enjoys them, for some reason.

He’s relieved to find Kenma sitting up and eating when he arrives back at the apartment. What he isn’t expecting is the man sitting on the couch next to him, wearing a business suit and holding Kiki in his lap.

“Uh, who are you?” Kuroo asks, forgetting to be polite in the face of a stranger sharing a couch with Kenma.

Both couch occupants turn toward him, and Kuroo blinks in shock as he looks into the dark green eyes of Iwaizumi Hajime.

“ _You’re_ the caretaker Oikawa sent over?”

“He brought me soup,” Kenma says simply, still sounding congested.

Kuroo shakes his head in disbelief, walking over to set his shopping bags down on the kitchen counter. Iwaizumi stands, placing Kiki gently on the back of the couch, before approaching Kuroo with his hand extended.

“It’s nice to meet you. Sorry for the intrusion. Oikawa mentioned your friend was sick and asked me to stop by after work.”

The man looks impeccable, yet Kuroo can sense his discomfort, the way his collar is frayed slightly from too much fidgeting, the way his shoulders are stiff, his back rim-rod straight. This is a man who has never been allowed to relax, and Kuroo wonders if that’s what drew him to Oikawa in the first place. Tooru certainly knows ways to loosen up and have fun.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Iwaizumi continues, keeping his hand outstretched.

Kuroo finally grasps it, giving it a firm squeeze that’s returned in kind. “Funny, I haven’t heard a thing about you,” he returns with a thin smirk.

“Don’t give him a hard time, Kuroo,” Kenma admonishes gently. “I like him.”

“You like him,” Kuroo repeats incredulously.

Kenma nods, sipping delicately from his spoon. Kuroo shakes his head, walking over to press the back of his fingers against Kenma’s forehead.

“You’re still warm,” he says, concern chasing away any other emotion. “Have you been taking the medicine and drinking water?”

Kenma nods.

“He seemed like he needed some company,” Iwaizumi says. “So I offered to stay with him until you came home.”

Kuroo glances over at him, more than a little miffed that a complete stranger had to look out for Kenma because he couldn’t. Nevertheless, he’s grateful.

“Thanks,” he says genuinely. “I appreciate it.”

“No problem. I’ve been wanting to meet you, meet you both, though I wish it were under better circumstances.” Iwaizumi nods toward Kenma. “I hope you feel better soon, Kenma.”

Kenma nods back, returning his attention to the soup, then.

“I’ll walk you out.” Kuroo gestures toward the door. Iwaizumi follows without complaint, and once they’ve both stepped outside, he turns to Kuroo.

“I know you disapprove of us,” he starts, showing hesitance for the first time. “Oikawa told me that you scolded him.”

Kuroo crosses his arms, leaning against the wall. “He’s my best friend. Closer to brothers, actually. You can’t blame me for being concerned about your . . . arrangement here.”

“I know it’s not ideal . . .”

Kuroo snorts. “Not ideal. One word to your father and Oikawa could get fired, his reputation ruined. Yeah, I’d say it’s not ideal.”

Iwaizumi frowns, frustration lining his face. “I’m not going to let that happen.”

“But you’re risking it.” Kuroo pushes off the wall to straighten, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Look, you seem like a stand-up guy, and I can tell you care about Oikawa. I just don’t want to see him get hurt.”

“Neither of us want that,” Iwaizumi says helplessly, lifting his arms to his side. “I don’t want this life for him. For us. All this sneaking around. Hiding our feelings. But until my father accepts me for who I am, I can’t do anything about it.”

“I get it, I do. I’m just not comfortable with you gambling Oikawa’s livelihood like this,” Kuroo admits.

Iwaizumi sighs. “I tried to talk him out of it when he confessed to me,” he admits. “But you know him. Once he decides he wants something . . .”

“Yeah, I know.” Kuroo can’t help but smile faintly, even as he shakes his head.

“Look, if it comes down to it, I’m prepared to take the fall. Nothing will happen to Oikawa. I promise.”

Kuroo studies him. It’d be an empty promise from most people, but there’s something about Iwaizumi’s presence, the set in his jaw and the resolve in his eyes, that says “loyal” and “determined.” Kuroo believes him.

“I can see why he fell for you,” Kuroo admits. “You’ve got that whole . . . chivalrous, knight in shining armor thing going for you.”

Iwaizumi’s ears redden. He coughs awkwardly. “Uh, thanks, I think.”

Kuroo grins. “You’re welcome.” He turns toward the door. “Thanks again for bringing the soup. You can tell Oikawa I approve, and you’re welcome over any time.”

Iwaizumi bows slightly. “Thank you.”

Kuroo nods, stepping into the apartment and shutting the door behind him. Slipping out of his shoes, he sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“You worry too much,” Kenma says idly from the couch.

Kuroo can’t help but smile faintly, as he steps over and crosses his arms over the back of the couch, leaning over them slightly to look at Kenma’s profile.

“Yeah? And I guess you don’t worry at all, Mr. I-Let-Strangers-Into-My-Home.”

“He’s not a stranger,” Kenma says, shaking his head. “I recognized him from the news.”

Kuroo shakes his head. “You still didn’t know him!”

Kenma glances over at him. “I knew Oikawa knows him. Oikawa’s a good judge of character.”

Kuroo snorts. “Like how he’s judged you?”

Kenma falls silent, turning his gaze onto his soup. Kuroo’s chest twinges. Reaching out hesitantly, he tugs lightly on the ends of Kenma’s hair.

“Hey . . . I know you’ve got stuff from your past that you don’t want to talk about. I get it. It doesn’t matter to me.”

“It should,” Kenma says, voice barely above a whisper.

“Why?”

Kenma purses his lips.

Kuroo pulls back, straightening. “The way I figure it, you’ll talk to me when you’re ready. Until then, I’m going to keep taking care of you and letting you stay here. Because I care about you.” He swallows hard past the lump in his throat, watching the back of Kenma’s head. “Is that okay?”

Kenma sniffles, and Kuroo’s chest tightens further. _Shit, is he crying?_ He’s not sure whether to leave him alone or try to comfort him. _What’s the best course of action here?!_

Slowly, he climbs over the back of the couch, settling down next to Kenma. He lifts his arm, an invitation. After a moment, Kenma scoots closer, pressing in against Kuroo’s side, leaning against him, as he clutches his soup bowl in both hands and draws his knees up against his chest. Kuroo carefully drops his arm across Kenma’s shoulder, and Kenma nestles in deeper.

“It’s okay,” Kuroo murmurs, gently stroking his fingers up and down Kenma’s arm. “You’re okay.”

Kenma shivers, but then grows still. After a moment, he nods, once. Kuroo reaches forward to pick up the remote from the coffee table.

“One Punch Man?”

He glances down just in time to see a flicker of a smile cross Kenma’s lips. He nods again, and Kuroo starts the episode.

 

 

 

 

 

Kuroo rubs his sweaty palms against the side of his pants. He stares at the door in front of him, willing himself to knock. His hands remain at his sides, trembling.

He’s put this off long enough. A week and a half has passed since the party, and he knows he has to confront his past in order to move forward.

That doesn’t make this any easier.

Turning from the door, he pulls out his phone. He bought Kenma his own after his roommate got over his cold. He doesn’t want Kenma to be without a way to contact him if anything else happens in the future. The first thing Kenma did was download a bunch of gaming apps. But Kuroo made sure he also imputed his number and Yaku’s, since that was the point of the purchase in the first place.

Now, he’s using this new line of communication to panic.

_I don’t think I can do this._ (20:14)

It takes a moment for a reply to appear. Kuroo wonders if he interrupted a game.

**Kenma**  
_u can_ (20:16)

Kuroo stares down at his screen, wondering how Kenma can have so much faith in him. He barely knows him.

_what if I can’t?_ (20:16)

**Kenma**  
_just do it._ (20:16)  
_get some pie after_ (20:18)

Kuroo snorts, glad Kenma has such confidence, at least. He wishes he could borrow some of it. Sighing, he slips his phone into his pocket and turns back toward the door. Before he can knock, however, it opens, revealing Akaashi. They both freeze in surprise, but Akaashi gathers his composure first.

“Kuroo-san. Can I help you with something?”

Kuroo clears his throat, his palms immediately sweaty once more. He shoves them in his pockets. “Is Kou home?”

Akaashi blinks, immediately on guard. “He is,” he says carefully. “Why?”

“I need to talk to him.”

Akaashi purses his lips, and Kuroo can tell he knows exactly what topic Kuroo plans to initiate. To his credit, he doesn’t tell Kuroo to get lost. Instead, his expression turns thoughtful, as he tilts his head and studies him with a keen gaze.

“He’s in the bedroom,” he says. “I was about to fetch something from the store.” He pauses. “He’s in a good mood.”

Kuroo wonders if that’s a warning to not upset Bokuto, or if Akaashi’s mentioning it because he thinks the topic will go over easier with that consideration in mind. Either way, he steps back and allows Kuroo to enter the apartment. Slipping out of his shoes, Kuroo tries to ignore the wild pounding of his heart.

“Good luck,” Akaashi says, moving past him to exit, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Kuroo inhales shakily, moving toward the bedroom, then.

Bokuto’s sprawled across the bed, sans shirt, flipping through a sports magazine. He’s wearing a pair of pajama bottoms, and his hair is down and damp. Kuroo guesses he just came home from practice and took a shower.

His mouth feels dry.

“Yo, Keiji, since you’re going out can you grab some more razors, too?” he asks without looking up from the magazine.

“Might have to text him,” Kuroo says, and finds himself grinning faintly as Bokuto jolts so suddenly he nearly falls off the bed.

“Dude! I didn’t know you were coming over!” Bokuto says with a grin, hopping to his feet and grabbing Kuroo in a hug. When he sets him back down, he looks behind him expectantly. “No Kenma?”

Kuroo shakes his head, the blood rushing in his ears. “No, uh, it’s just me.”

Bokuto looks back at him quizzically. “Is he sick again? Little dude should eat more vegetables.”

“No, no, Kenma’s fine. It’s just . . .” Kuroo inhales sharply. “There’s something I need to talk to you about. Something private. Serious.”

Bokuto’s brows furrow, making him look even more confused. “Okay,” he says slowly, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. “What’s up?”

Kuroo feels weird standing, but he’s not sure he can say this while sitting next to a shirtless Bokuto on the bed, so he grabs the desk chair and pulls it over, sitting down and running his hands over his knees. He inhales, then exhales slowly, trying to calm his nerves.

“You’re kinda making me nervous here, man,” Bokuto says with a half-hearted laugh. His eyes widen suddenly. “Shit, are you dying?!”

Kuroo chokes, forgetting to be nervous as incredulity fills him. “What?! No, I’m not dying! The hell?”

“How was I supposed to know? You’re coming in here all solemn and shit, looking like you’re about to die . . . It was as good a guess as any!” Bokuto lifts his arms to the side, before crossing them over his chest. His bare chest.

Kuroo wishes his best friend didn’t look so good, right now. The memories have started to come back, sharp and potent, leaving behind pinpricks of pain across his chest. It doesn’t feel as terrible as it did back then, but it’s not exactly pleasant, either.

“I need to talk to you,” he starts, “about . . . what happened back at university.”

Bokuto’s back to looking confused. “What do you mean?”

“You know . . . our . . . thing. The thing that we had.”

Bokuto smiles, then, a soft smile that one uses when recalling fond memories. It pierces straight through Kuroo’s heart, causing his chest to tighten further.

“Oh, yeah. We had some fun back then, huh?”

Kuroo swallows hard, struggling to keep his voice light. “Yeah, well, it wasn’t just fun for me, Kou. I . . . I was in love with you.”

Bokuto’s smile freezes. His eyes widen, confusion, horror, and guilt flickering across his face in quick succession. “You’re fucking with me,” he says, finally. He laughs, a harsh dissonant sound. He shakes his head vigorously. “There’s no way. There’s no way! I would’ve—”

“Known?” Kuroo finishes for him. “Yeah, well, that’s what I thought too.” He curls his fingers into fists. “I thought you knew. I thought . . . I didn’t know, Kou. I didn’t know you thought we were just having fun. I thought what we had was real. That you . . . that you felt the same.”

Bokuto stares at him. “You never said . . .”

“I know. I know.” Kuroo runs his hand through his hair agitatedly. “I should’ve brought it up. Or mentioned it, or something. I was stupid, okay? I made assumptions, and when Akaashi told me what you said to him, about how it wasn’t real, I . . . it hurt, Kou. It hurt so much.”

The blood has drained from Bokuto’s face. “Fuck,” he says softly. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Kuroo looks down at his hands. “I didn’t want to fuck up your game, your . . . your stability. You were doing so good, with uni, with the team, even with Akaashi . . . I didn’t want to ruin any of that.”

“So you just suffered and let me think everything was cool when it wasn’t?!” Bokuto asks, his voice rising. “You lied to me?!”

“I wanted to protect you,” Kuroo says helplessly. “I’m sorry.”

“Is my head so fucked up that you thought you couldn’t be honest with me?!” Bokuto asks, moving to stand. His hands flex at his sides, his eyes wet. “Best friends tell each other the truth, Kuroo!”

Kuroo stands, as well. “I know, I know,” he says quickly. “I just . . . I was hurt and angry, but I knew it was my own fault that I was. I didn’t want to drag you down with me!”

“So, why are you telling me _now_?”

“Because, I thought I was okay, but I’m not. I’m not okay, Kou! And I needed to be able to tell you that. I thought I’d moved past it, but sometimes I see you with Akaashi and it just . . . it hurts. Maybe not as much as before, but it still does and I want to be okay with it, I want to be okay with you two because I know he makes you happy, I want you to be happy, but my heart was fucking stepped on, and sometimes it feels like I can’t breathe and—”

Kuroo’s rambling, he knows he is, but Bokuto steps up in the middle of his rant, and wraps his arms around Kuroo. Kuroo can feel himself losing control. He trembles against Bokuto, even as the other man starts to rub his back gently.

“I’m sorry,” Bokuto says miserably. “I had no idea.”

“I know,” Kuroo mutters into his shoulder, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. He takes comfort in Bokuto’s warmth, in the feeling of his strong arms around him, in the scent of his shampoo.

Surprisingly, it doesn’t cause an ache of want in his chest. Instead, it feels like pieces of his heart are reforming, loosening the tightness around his lungs, allowing him to relax.

“Shit, Kuroo, I’m so sorry,” Bokuto says, tightening his grip around him briefly before leaning back. He takes Kuroo’s shoulders in his hands and looks him in the eye. “What can I do to make it up to you?”

Kuroo shakes his head. “You don’t have to do anything,” he says, his voice rough. He clears his throat. “I just . . . needed to get all of this off my chest.”

Bokuto nods slowly. “I get it,” he says. “I’m glad you did. I want you to be able to tell me things, Tetsurou! Even if you think I’ll get upset. I can take it!” He puffs out his chest, thudding his fist against it. “I’m a lot better now!”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” Kuroo admits. “I’m proud of you, Kou. You’ve . . . you’ve really done well for yourself.”

Bokuto beams. “I know, right? I’m awesome!” He deflates, then. “Well, I guess except for the fact that I hurt you. I really didn’t mean to, you know that, right? I liked being with you. I had a lot of fun, and you were super hot. I just . . . I didn’t know.”

“I know,” Kuroo says with a nod. “It’s okay.”

And for the first time in two years, he doesn’t feel like he’s lying.

 

 

 

 

 

When Akaashi gets home, he walks in to Kuroo and Bokuto on the couch, laughing almost hysterically. They spent the last fifteen minutes reminiscing their antics back at the beginning of their university years, bringing up _good_ memories that had them both in tears from laughter.

Akaashi sets down his groceries, lifting an eyebrow. “I guess this is a good sign,” he says mildly.

“Keiji, Keiji,” Bokuto gasps, turning to hang over the back of the couch. “Did I ever tell you about the time we stole our math instructor’s toupee and put it on that bust of the dean?”

“Several times.”

Kuroo’s sides ache, and he wipes tears from his eyes. “I can’t believe we actually pulled that off,” he says, shaking his head. “They all had no idea who did it.”

“Astonishing.”

Kuroo forces himself to calm down, getting the feeling he’s about to overstay his welcome. Still, his heart feels light, as he stands.

“Movie night,” he says, pointing to Bokuto. “Gotta plan it.”

Bokuto grins back at him. “Totally.”

Akaashi walks him to the door. “Either it went incredibly well or you didn’t tell him,” he says calmly.

“I don’t think we gave Bokuto enough credit,” Kuroo admits. “He was upset, yeah, but . . . he took it well, I think. Whatever medication he’s taking now, it’s really helping him. Thanks for, well, everything you did with that, by the way. Everything you’ve done for him in general.”

Akaashi studies him a moment before nodding. Kuroo watches, as he visibly relaxes, his posture no longer resembling that of a statue. His fingers begin fidgeting, twisting over each other, as he looks to the side. Kuroo waits. He has a feeling he knows what question is going to come next.

“Kuroo-san, I don’t particularly care what you think of me. It will not affect my relationship with Koutarou. However, your . . . dislike of me did cause some tension that I-I—”

“I don’t dislike you,” Kuroo interrupts. “I don’t think I ever did, really. But yeah, Akaashi, we’re cool. Don’t worry.”

Akaashi’s cheeks flush. “I wasn’t worried,” he says with a faint frown.

“Sure you weren’t.” Kuroo smirks, before leaning in to place a quick kiss against Akaashi’s cheek. “You treat him well. That’s all that matters to me.”

Akaashi blinks in shock, back rim-rod straight once more. Grinning cheekily, Kuroo winks at him, before making his way down the hall, whistling.

It’s only when he’s halfway home with Kenma’s pie that he realizes what all this means. That chapter in his life is closed. He can finally move past the residual feelings he still has for Bokuto. For a moment he stands completely still in the middle of the sidewalk, staring off into space. What will this mean for his relationship with Kenma? There’s no denying that he has feelings for Kenma, but up until this moment he’s tried not to think about them, aware of Kenma’s situation and his own fixation on Bokuto and Akaashi.

With that fixation out of the way, though, is he allowed to broach the subject with Kenma? Are they ready for that? He wants to. Shit, he wants to so badly.

But will it be what’s best for Kenma? Or is Kuroo doomed to go through yet another season of unrequited love?

He knows the only way to know for sure is to talk to Kenma and not let things sit like before. But the thought of possible rejection makes his chest seize up once more.

_Shit._

Why is he like this? Why does he keep falling for people he shouldn’t?

Oikawa was right. Bringing Kenma into his home wasn’t the best idea.

But on the other hand . . .

Kenma’s brought so much into his life with just his presence. He’s soothing to be around, and his company helps drive back the loneliness that’s lingered in the corners of Kuroo’s apartment for years. It’s nice to have another person around, to share experiences with, to comfort and to hold. And maybe Kuroo is falling too fast, but he can’t exactly tell Kenma to leave.

He doesn’t _want_ Kenma to leave.

His mind is still whirring with disjointed thoughts and scrambled feelings when he steps into his apartment. Kenma’s sitting on the couch where Kuroo left him, hunched over his phone. He doesn’t look up, as Kuroo slips out of his shoes and walks around to set the pie on the coffee table and take a seat next to him.

“How did it go?” Kenma asks, eyes fixed on his screen.

“Better than I expected,” Kuroo admits, watching his profile.

Kenma nods absently. He doesn’t have to say ‘I told you so;’ Kuroo can sense him thinking it. Leaning forward, Kuroo grabs the pie and the two plastic forks he also picked up at the corner store. Balancing it in his lap, he opens it up and digs straight into the center with the fork, lifting it to take a bite.

“Not bad for store bought,” he has to admit. “Here.”

He offers the pie to Kenma, but the other simply opens his mouth, not taking his eyes away from the phone.

“Seriously?” Kuroo laughs.

Kenma waits.

Shaking his head, Kuroo spears another piece, bringing it to Kenma’s mouth and placing it inside. Kenma’s lips close around the fork, as Kuroo slips it back out, and for some stupid reason Kuroo’s stomach chooses to flip over itself.

_Don’t be an idiot._

Kenma chews with a soft hum, appearing content with the taste as well. He opens his mouth again, and Kuroo can’t help but laugh once more.

“What am I, your slave?” he teases, yet feeding him another piece.

It’s cute. Kuroo hates to admit it, but it is. Everything about Kenma is cute. And . . . attractive.

He stares, as Kenma licks pie sauce from his lips.

“Kenma.”

“Mm?”

_Don’t be an idiot._

He switches gears, quickly.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

It’s lame. Kuroo feels lame, saying it. But Kenma’s lips twitch in what could be a smile, so Kuroo figures that, in this moment, at least, there’s nothing wrong with being lame.

“You like being here, right?” he asks, when Kenma doesn’t respond. “With me and Kiki?”

Kenma lifts his gaze finally, fixing Kuroo with a flat stare. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

Kuroo grins. “So you like me.”

Kenma purses his lips. “I didn’t say that.” He turns his eyes to his phone.

“You totally like me.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re blushing!”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not”

“Are too~”

Kenma lifts his gaze once more to fix Kuroo with a glare, but it’s clear that he’s flustered, his cheeks pink. Kuroo leans in closer, knowing he’s testing the boundaries, but Kenma remains still, letting him approach. He places his lips next to Kenma’s ear, biting back a smirk.

“I like you, too.”

It can’t be his imagination that Kenma shivers, as he whispers that. When he leans back, Kenma’s once more staring at the phone, but this time his expression is completely different. It’s . . . closed off. Guarded.

Kuroo’s stomach drops. “Shit. I didn’t . . . Kenma, I wasn’t trying to—”

“It’s fine,” Kenma says quickly, shaking his head. “You can like me.”

Kuroo blinks. That wasn’t the answer he was expecting. “I can?”

Kenma looks away. “I don’t think it’s a good idea, but I can’t tell you how to feel.”

Kuroo tilts his head, frowning slightly as his surprise gives way to confusion. “Why isn’t it a good idea?”

Kenma doesn’t reply.

“Kenma?”

He taps something on his phone screen, no longer acknowledging Kuroo.

“Kenma, I know I said I don’t care about what happened in your past, but it’s obvious that you’re hurting. I want to help, but you have to let me.” Carefully, Kuroo reaches over to place his hand lightly over Kenma’s wrist.

Kenma pulls away, moving to stand. “You can’t.”

“Why not?” Kuroo asks helplessly, looking up at him.

But Kenma’s already turning away, heading for the bathroom.

“Kenma,” Kuroo calls, hoping he’ll turn back around.

Kenma shuts the door to the bathroom firmly. Kuroo drops his head on the back of the couch, running his hands over his face with a frustrated groan. He knows they’re making progress, but it still feels like whenever they move a step forward, Kenma pushes them two steps backwards. He allows Kuroo in, just a little, just enough for Kuroo’s affection to grow deeper, only to cut him off before he can get too close, before their relationship can deepen.

_What is he so afraid of?_

Kuroo doesn’t want to push him too far, but he’s starting to get the feeling that Kenma’s just as stunted by his past as Kuroo was. He needs to confront the issue if he’s going to get past it, just like Kenma told him.

Kiki hops up onto his lap, kneading his thigh, as she meows for attention. Picking her up, Kuroo drops his face into her fur, sighing heavily.

“What should I do, Kiki? How do I make him happy?”

But Kiki only purrs, leaving him with no answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://shions-heart.tumblr.com/


	6. Impulse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this chapter has taken so long. I've been in a really Bad place these past three weeks, but I think I'm finally on an upswing :) 
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to Claudia (@claudiyah_art on twitter/@bokuakakuroken on tumblr), as it was her birthday a little while ago. Thank you for being such an encouraging and awesome friend! I hope your year is full of love, laughter, and Haikyuu!! <3
> 
> Enjoy~

 

 

“Holy shit, it’s hot as fuck.”

Yaku shoots Kuroo a withering glance, but doesn’t tell him to watch his language in front of the customers. Mainly, because there _are_ no customers. Not two hours into the morning shift, the air conditioner to the café shut down. Kuroo felt obligated to put up a sign warning people, and they’ve had little to no business since. When people _do_ come in, it’s only to quickly pay for a cold drink before leaving hurriedly. No one lingers, and they’re running low on ice.

It’s, frankly, horrible.

Kenma is currently draped across the counter, pressing his flushed cheek against the cool surface. Yaku told Kuroo he couldn’t take off his shirt (“But I’m wearing an apron!”), so he rolled up the sleeves instead. He stands beside Kenma, sagging against the display case, while Yaku stands at the open door, trying to entice people inside with the promise of cold coffee.

Kenma wonders why he doesn’t just give up and close the store until the repairman arrives and fixes things.

“You hanging in there?” Kuroo asks, reaching down to wipe some damp hair off Kenma’s forehead, tucking it behind his ear. He’s already pulled it back into a tail, but the few strands that were too short to reach stick to the sides of his face.

“I think I’m dying,” Kenma says.

Kuroo smirks. “Same. Here’s hoping the first level of Hell is an ice storm.”

Kenma wonders briefly why he thinks he’ll go to Hell, as opposed to someplace nicer, when a new voice causes him to peel himself off the counter. He straightens, blinking at the balding man standing beside Yaku in the doorway.

“It says your A/C is broken,” the guy says, pointing to the sign.

Yaku blinks. “Yes. We’re aware of the problem. However, we still have—”

“Why is it broken?”

Yaku purses his lips and tries again. “We don’t know, sir. But if you’d like to—”

“You should get someone to fix it. I know a guy.”

Kuroo snickers behind his hand, as Yaku’s face grows redder than before.

“Yes, sir, we’ve already called a repairman. In the meantime, if you’d like some iced coffee—”

The guy stares into the shop for a moment before turning away. “Nah. They’re giving away free ice cream down by the pier.”

He walks off, and Yaku stands on his toes to shout after him.

“Well, I hope you enjoy it!”

He stalks back into the shop, muttering under his breath. Kenma contemplates flopping back down on the counter, but now it’s covered in his sweat and looks less appealing.

“Okay, that’s it. I’m not going to deal with this any more. I’m closing the café until we get the A/C fixed.”

“Fucking _finally_ ,” Kuroo says, immediately hopping over the counter.

Without waiting for Kenma to ask, he reaches over and grabs him under the arms, helping him up over the counter as well. As soon as he’s on his feet, Kuroo takes his hand and tugs him into the break room to grab their things. Kenma allows himself to be dragged over and then pulled out of the café.

“First thing I’m doing when we get back is taking a cold shower,” Kuroo says, his steps quick and determined.

Kenma’s too exhausted from the heat to keep up, so he staggers several paces behind, as Kuroo continues to lead him by the hand.

“Or, I guess, you can have it first, if you want.” Kuroo looks back at him questioningly.

_Or we could shower together . . ._

It’s what Kenma wants to say, but instead he presses his lips into a straight line and nods.

The thought isn’t a complete surprise. It feels like they’ve been toeing this line for the past few weeks. Ever since the night Kuroo came back from talking to Bokuto about what happened between them, Kenma’s been feeling . . . tentatively hopeful. He all but admitted to Kuroo’s face that he likes the guy, and Kuroo confessed that he likes him, too.

But Kenma can’t help but remember the past that he’s hiding, the secret that Kuroo must never know. If he finds out, he’ll no longer look at Kenma the way he does now. Kenma wouldn’t even be surprised if Kuroo insisted he leave, to go back home. For both their benefit.

No, he can’t tell him. And he can’t let them cross that line, either. How can he give Kuroo all of himself without coming clean? It wouldn’t be fair to Kuroo to pursue a relationship that’s full of secrecy.

So, he can either tell Kuroo the truth and be sent away, or he can remain by Kuroo’s side but only as friends.

He really doesn’t want to leave Kuroo’s side.

When they reach the apartment, Kenma goes immediately to the bathroom to turn on the shower. Before he can start undressing, however, Kuroo bursts into the room. Kenma jumps, his heart racing at the abrupt entrance. He watches blankly, as Kuroo hurries to the shower and turns it off.

“I just remembered that shocking your body with ice cold water after overheating can be really bad for you,” he says, shaking his head. “We gotta make sure it isn’t too cold.”

Kenma stares, as Kuroo begins adjusting the knob, holding his hand underneath the spray until he nods in satisfaction. “Okay, that should be good.”

When he turns back around and catches Kenma’s stare, he rubs the back of his neck, a sheepish half-smile tilting his lips. “Sorry. I just . . . wouldn’t want you to get sick. I’ll . . .” He gestures to the door, before skirting past Kenma to slip outside. He shuts the door behind him, and Kenma bites his lip, undressing slowly.

The cool water feels amazing on his flushed skin, but it’s not long before he’s shivering. He steps out and dries off as best he can, before wrapping a towel around his waist and exiting. He finds Kuroo laying on the floor in the living room, stripped down to his boxers, a small fan plugged into the wall next to him, blowing air on his face.

Kenma tilts his head, unable to help but study his body. It’s a nice one; he can’t deny that. The daily morning runs must keep him in shape, since he doesn’t play volleyball anymore. Stepping closer, he nudges Kuroo’s foot with his, gently.

Kuroo’s eyes open, and he blinks blankly at Kenma for a moment, before his cheeks darken with a flush not attributed to the sun.

“Well,” he says, with forced nonchalance. “This is an interesting situation we’re in.”

Kenma glances down at his own mostly naked body, before turning his gaze away to stare at the back of the couch. “No, it isn’t.”

Kuroo gets to his feet. He doesn’t immediately turn to the bathroom, however, and when Kenma peeks back at him through his hair, he finds Kuroo staring.

“Shower’s free,” he says quickly, before Kuroo can say anything.

Kuroo shuts his mouth abruptly. He nods, moving past Kenma toward the bathroom. Kenma shies away slightly, even though they weren’t going to touch in the first place. He grimaces inwardly, quickly throwing his dirty clothes into Kuroo’s laundry basket before pulling on some boxer-briefs and Kuroo’s too-large shirt that he sleeps in. He takes Kuroo’s place on the floor, then, allowing the fan to blow into his face.

He’s only there for a few minutes, when there’s a knock at the door. Sitting up slowly, Kenma frowns at it. There’s another knock, and Kenma wonders if Kuroo’s expecting anyone. He’s contemplating just ignoring it, but then he hears a voice.

“Tetsun? I know you’re home. I stopped by the café, and Yaku told me you were here.”

Oikawa.

Kenma’s even more tempted to ignore it, but there’s something in Oikawa’s voice that gives him pause. Standing slowly, he crosses over to the door and opens it just enough to peer outside. Oikawa’s standing there, sweat making his perfectly styled hair droop. He’s wearing a business suit, but it looks rumpled, the button-down shirt un-tucked. When their eyes meet, Oikawa’s widen slightly, and he pastes on a polite, friendly smile.

“Hello, Kenma-kun,” he says lightly. “Is Kuroo in there?”

“It’s his apartment,” Kenma says flatly.

Oikawa’s expression tightens, but he doesn’t lose his smile. “I really need to speak to him.”

There it is again. That odd strain in his voice; like he’s trying his best to not show any weakness. Kenma finds himself opening the door wider, stepping back to allow Oikawa inside.

He kicks off his shoes and removes his suit jacket, hanging it up on the coat rack, before loosening his tie and unbuttoning the first button of his shirt. His eyes scan the room hopefully, while Kenma lingers by the door.

“Shower,” he says simply to explain Kuroo’s absence.

Oikawa nods absently, crossing to the kitchen to help himself to a glass of water. Kenma finds himself curious. He follows Oikawa, picking up Kiki when she appears, holding her to his chest, as he pauses in the entryway.

“Sorry if I interrupted anything,” Oikawa says lightly, casting a glance toward Kenma’s lack of proper attire.

“You didn’t.”

Oikawa looks surprised. “You mean you haven’t—”

Thankfully, Kuroo appears before Oikawa can finish that question. He’s wearing only a pair of basketball shorts, a towel slung around his neck. He flicks his hair out of his eyes, looking in surprise at Oikawa.

“Hey, man, what are you doing here?” he asks.

Oikawa sets his glass on the counter. Kenma notices how his hand trembles slightly around it, before his grip tightens. “I fucked up,” he says with a small grin that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Kuroo frowns, stepping around Kenma and Kiki to approach his friend. “What do you mean you fucked up?”

Oikawa turns to lean against the counter, throwing his hands in the air. “With Iwa-chan. I fucked up. Cuz that’s what I do, apparently. Everything that’s good in my life . . . I try too hard to cling to it, and I end up fucking it up.”

Kuroo’s gaze drops to Oikawa’s right knee briefly, before he looks back at Oikawa’s face. “Hey,” he says gently, reaching out to grab Oikawa’s shoulder, squeezing it firmly. “What happened?”

Oikawa swallows hard, twice, before answering. “I was . . . stupid. It was stupid. I caught Iwa-chan working in his office and, you know, started flirting. It escalated from there, and the next thing I know, Iwaizumi-san himself is walking into the room.” His gaze falls to the floor. “He was furious. He threatened to disown Iwa-chan and kick him out of the company.” He inhales sharply. “So I told him he was a narrow-minded fool who didn’t deserve someone like Iwa-chan as a son.”

Closing his eyes, Oikawa shakes his head quickly. “He fired me, right then and there. After he was gone, I tried to talk to Iwa-chan, try to figure out how to fix things. But he . . . he didn’t want to talk to me. So I left. And I came here.”

Kenma chews on his lip, as he watches Oikawa slump further against the counter. All the self-assured confidence, all the arrogance, is gone. He looks lost, defeated, and Kenma feels a pang of sympathy. Setting Kiki down, he picks up Oikawa’s forgotten glass, filling it up once more before holding it out to him.

Oikawa stares down at it a moment before his lips quirk, and he takes the glass with a nod.

“He’s probably not mad at you,” Kuroo says, though he looks worried. “His father didn’t _actually_ disown him, right?”

Oikawa shrugs listlessly. “Not then, but who’s to say he hasn’t by now?”

Kuroo sighs, running his hand through his hair. “Okay. Okay, we can still fix this. Maybe—”

“Tetsun, I didn’t come here because I wanted you to stress yourself out trying to fix everything, right now,” Oikawa says tiredly, setting the glass down and straightening. “I just . . . needed my best friend.”

“You have me. Always,” Kuroo says, immediately, taking Oikawa’s shoulders in both hands, now. “What do you want to do? Crash here tonight?”

Oikawa nods. “I mean, if it’s okay with Pudding-chan,” he says, glancing sidelong at Kenma.

“Don’t call me that,” is all Kenma says in response.

“Come on,” Kuroo says, draping his arm across Oikawa’s shoulders and leading him back into the family room. “We’ll have some ice cream and binge watch _The X-Files_. But I promise we’re going to figure things out, okay? Don’t give up on Iwaizumi just yet, either of them.”

Oikawa nods, sitting down on the couch with a grateful half-smile. “Okay,” he says with a small nod.

Grabbing Kenma’s sleeve, Kuroo pulls him back into the kitchen to fetch the ice cream. “You sure it’s okay that he stays here tonight?” Kuroo asks, pulling the carton out and setting it on the countertop.

Kenma nods. “I’m sure.”

Kuroo smiles faintly, grabbing three spoons out of a drawer. “Thanks,” he says, dropping a tiny kiss on the top of Kenma’s head, as he passes him to reenter the living room.

Kenma lingers in the kitchen, not trusting the warmth that’s blooming in his chest. He shakes his head to clear it, before making his way back to the couch. Kuroo’s seated in the middle, so Kenma sits beside him, opposite of Oikawa. Kuroo holds the ice cream in his lap, having already dug in with Oikawa. Kenma takes the proffered spoon Kuroo lifts and takes a tiny scoop.

They end up eating the entire carton between the three of them, as they watch _The X-Files_ the rest of the day. Once midnight comes around, and Kenma can’t hide his yawns, Kuroo turns off the TV and announces it’s time for bed.

“Kenma’s been sleeping on the couch, so you can take my bed,” Kuroo offers. “I’ll make a mat on the floor.”

“I don’t mind sharing,” Oikawa says, shaking his head.

Kuroo laughs. “I know, but you’re clingy as fuck when you sleep, and it’s way too hot for that.”

Oikawa sticks out his tongue. “Plenty of people sleep better while holding something. It makes them feel more secure.”

“You _are_ pretty insecure.”

“Hey!”

Kenma bites back the offer that’s risen to his lips. _Oikawa can take the couch, while Kuroo and I share the bed . . ._

It’s true, though, sharing with someone on a hot night can be rather miserable for both parties. So, with that fact in mind, he remains silent, as Kuroo takes Oikawa into the bedroom to get him some sleep clothes to change into. Kiki chirps softly from her perch on the back of the couch, and Kenma pulls her down to cuddle her once more. He buries his face in her soft fur, listening to her purr and trying to ignore the ache in his chest.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The cold rain hits his face like tiny needles. Sheets of it fall continuously from the dark sky, as thunder rolls overhead. Kenma can’t make out anything past the curtain except glittering red, blue, and yellow lights. He can hear people yelling, but it’s difficult to make out what they’re saying past the thunder and rain and the rushing of blood in his ears, the rapid beat of his heart, pounding in his throat.

_Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom._

“KENMA!” An angry roar breaks through the cacophony of noise.

Kenma stiffens, wanting to turn and run. But his feet are stuck. He can’t go anywhere. He can’t even move, even as Taketora grabs his biceps in a vice-like grip and shakes him, hard.

“It’s your fault! It’s your fault!”

Kenma parts his lips, but he can’t speak. The lump in his throat is too large. Besides, what could he say? It is his fault.

“Kenma! What’s _wrong_ with you? How could you do this to me? To Akane?!”

Giant tears are rolling down Tora’s cheeks. He’s devastated. Kenma did that.

Kenma wants to reach toward him. He wants to explain. But he can’t speak.

Tora shakes him again, harder. His head wobbles back and forth. When the world stops spinning, he freezes once more, staring wide-eyed into the damp face of Kuroo. His hair is plastered to forehead, his one visible eye looking down at Kenma in horror, his expression twisted in pain.

“How could you do this?” he asks hoarsely. “What kind of monster are you?!”

“I-I didn’t. I-I’m not . . .” Kenma stammers, trying to defend himself, but he knows it’s no use. Kuroo won’t believe him. How could he? Kenma doesn’t even believe it.

He knows what he did. He knows who he is.

_Coward. Runaway._

_Murderer._

“NO!”

Kenma sits upright on the couch, gasping for breath. Kiki hops off his lap, tail flicking back and forth in annoyance at being disturbed. Kenma can feel his shirt, Kuroo’s shirt, sticking to his back, damp with sweat. He lifts a shaking hand to brush his hair back out of his face.

_It was just a dream._

He clings to that logic, even as he insists in a quieter inner voice, _I’m not a murderer._

“No offense, Pudding-chan, but you look like shit.”

Kenma lifts his head to look over at Oikawa who’s leaning against the wall at the hallway entrance. His arms are crossed over his bare chest, his hair lightly mussed from sleep. A pair of Kuroo’s pajama shorts is slung low on his hips, and Kenma looks away before his chest can twist painfully. His hair swings forward to hide his face.

“I have them too, you know. Sometimes, at least.”

Kenma glances sidelong at Oikawa through his hair. The young man lifts his gaze to the ceiling.

“I was going to go pro in volleyball, too. Did Kuroo tell you that? I was good. _Really_ good. One of the best. But I pushed myself too hard. I wanted it so badly; I didn’t listen to my coach or my teammates or my doctor. I pushed and pushed until finally . . . I couldn’t push anymore. My career ended in a single instant. It was the worst day of my life.” He lowers his gaze. It slides over Kenma before falling to the floor. “Until now, I guess.”

Kenma wonders if he’s supposed to offer some sort of comfort.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asks finally.

Oikawa shrugs, pushing off the wall to straighten. “I haven’t treated you very well. I’m pretty clingy when it comes to things I care about. If I pushed that hard to keep volleyball, I’ll push ten times harder to protect Kuroo. I wasn’t about to let some random person off the street hurt him.”

Kenma bites his lip, looking down at his hands in his lap.

“Kuroo acts tough and cool, but he’s really just a big softie. He’s sympathetic, unlike me. But . . . for the sake of his heart, I’m willing to hear you out. A story for a story. You heard mine. What’s yours?”

Kenma shakes his head. “I can’t,” he says softly.

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

Kenma lifts his head, looking over at Oikawa miserably. With a sigh, Oikawa approaches. He stands beside the couch, looking down at Kenma with a faint frown.

“Whatever it is, it’s obviously upsetting you. Sometimes keeping secrets hurts you just as much as it hurts the people you care about. But, I don’t think you’re giving Kuroo enough credit. He cares about you too, Pudding-chan. I don’t think there’s much you can say now that’ll change that.”

Kenma looks away. Closing his eyes, he sees Kuroo’s face in his dream, looking at him like he’s something despicable. If the real Kuroo ever looked at him like that . . .

“I get why you don’t trust me,” Kenma admits quietly. He looks up at Oikawa, then, blinking slowly. “But I just . . . I _can’t_.”

Oikawa purses his lips. “Are you a criminal? Will people come after you that’ll hurt Kuroo?”

Kenma hesitates before shaking his head. “No one will hurt Kuroo,” he promises.

Oikawa only looks half-convinced, but before he can say anything, Kuroo walks in through the front door. He’s panting and sweaty, wearing his running shorts and a loose sleeveless shirt. He kicks off his shoes and peels off his shirt before realizing both his guests are staring at him from the living room. He blinks in surprise.

“Hey! I thought you’d both still be asleep.”

Oikawa yawns. “Just making sure I get first dibs on breakfast.”

Kuroo snorts. “Oh, I’m making you breakfast now?”

“You always make breakfast,” Kenma says pointedly.

“I thought you were supposed to be on my side!” Kuroo exclaims, affronted.

Kenma can’t help but smile faintly. Kuroo walks past them both toward the bathroom. “I gotta shower first. If you’re that hungry, there’s eggs in the fridge and rice in the cabinet. Help yourself!”

Oikawa wrinkles his nose. “Eggs and rice for breakfast? I’m in the mood for hot cakes.”

“If you’re buying!” Kuroo calls from down the hall, before shutting the door to the bathroom and turning on the water.

Kenma tucks his hair behind his ear, looking up at Oikawa. “You know, if you’d continued on your volleyball career, you might not’ve met Hajime,” he tells the young man.

Oikawa blinks back at him. Slowly, he smirks. “Is that your attempt at cheering me up?”

Kenma shrugs, gaze shifting to the side.

“You’re not half-bad, Pudding-chan.” Oikawa reaches out to ruffle his hair.

Kenma ducks away with a glare.

“Hey, don’t give me that look! Thanks to me, we’re going to have hot cakes!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“AH!” Bokuto throws his arms into the air. Akaashi ducks expertly. “I’m so glad you got the A/C fixed in here! If I had to spend another day eating lunch at Akaashi’s work place, I was going to go crazy!”

Kuroo snorts. “Right, I’m sure hanging around a bunch of models was torture.”

“They’re so judgmental! We were just sitting there, minding our own business, and these guys kept giving me looks like I wasn’t supposed to be there. I’m Akaashi’s boyfriend!”

“Maybe they were jealous,” Oikawa says with a smirk.

Bokuto beams. “Because I’m awesome and famous?” he asks.

“No, because you’re dating the best-looking model at the agency,” Oikawa says, twirling his chopsticks at Akaashi. “Obviously.”

Bokuto deflates, slumping in his seat, and Akaashi pats his arm lightly. “They just don’t like you because you’re loud, and you disrupt the photoshoots.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better, Agkaaaashi!”

Kuroo snickers into his bento. Kenma tries to ignore them, as he plays a new game on his phone. It’s been two days since Oikawa slept over, and he’s been crashing at the apartment the past two nights, as well. Kuroo pointed out that he has his own apartment, but Oikawa simply whines about not wanting to be alone, and Kuroo gives in. Kenma knows it’s because he feels sorry for Oikawa, but coddling him isn’t going to help the situation.

When he brings it up to Kuroo, however, the man agrees but admits he doesn’t know what else to do.

“I don’t know how to get in contact with Iwaizumi,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck with a sigh. “And I can’t exactly go up against Iwaizumi-san, either. We have to wait for Iwaizumi to come to us, if Oikawa isn’t willing to reach out himself.”

Kenma knows he’s right.

Which is why he stole Oikawa’s phone ten minutes prior to send a text to one Iwaizumi Hajime.

When he enters the café, he stops short of the table, surveying everyone with a look of surprise. Kenma supposes he should have warned him about the group, but the man quickly recovers and approaches Oikawa’s seat.

Oikawa stares up at him, mouth ajar. “Iwa-chan!”

Hajime stuffs his hands into his pockets. “You said you wanted to talk.”

Oikawa’s gaze falls onto Kenma, who turns to his phone and pretends to be busy. He listens, though, as Oikawa pushes back his chair and stands.

“Are you still mad?” he asks in a low voice.

Hajime glances around the table. Kuroo and Akaashi have the decency to at least pretend like they’re not listening, but Bokuto is outwardly staring with a perplexed half-smile. Hajime grabs Oikawa’s sleeve and pulls him toward the toilets. The second they slip inside, Kuroo’s standing and following their path.

“Really, Kuroo-san?” Akaashi calls, not amused.

Kuroo just waves him off and presses his ear against the door. Unable to stifle his own curiosity, Kenma pockets his phone and makes his way over as well. Kuroo smirks down at him, as Kenma takes the spot in front of him and curls his hand around his ear, pressing it against the door in a mirror image to Kuroo.

“I know, I’m sorry,” Oikawa is saying. “But I couldn’t just stand there and let him speak to you like that. Iwa-chan should’ve stood up for himself, but he didn’t. So I did.”

Hajime grunts in frustration. “You don’t know my father. He could ruin your life, Oikawa!”

“But he hasn’t,” Oikawa sounds cheerful, but Kenma knows it’s fake. “Maybe he’s taking my words to heart and finally seeing sense.”

Hajime sighs. “It’s not that I don’t . . . appreciate what you tried to do. But you should’ve let me handle things quietly. Now I . . . I don’t know what to do.”

“Do you regret it?” Oikawa asks in a small voice, after a pause.

“I regret getting caught.”

“But not . . .”

“No, Tooru,” Hajime admits softly. “I don’t regret being with you. I love you.”

“Iwa-chan’s so sappy.” Oikawa teases, but Kenma can hear the emotion hidden beneath his words.

“Don’t make me hit you.”

Silence follows, but the door doesn’t open, which seems suspicious. Kenma pulls away from the door, having an idea of what might be happening now. Kuroo leans back as well and gives the door a disgusted look.

“You don’t think they’re actually going to do it in there, do you? That’s gross.”

Kenma shrugs and looks away, when Kuroo turns his gaze onto him. “You texted Iwaizumi, didn’t you?”

Kenma starts back toward the table. After a moment, Kuroo follows.

“Thank you,” he leans down to whisper into Kenma’s ear.

Kenma shivers and sits down abruptly.

“Is that really Iwaizumi Hajime?” Bokuto asks in a whisper that’s only a fraction softer than his normal speaking voice. “Son of _the_ Iwaizumi. The rich guy from TV!”

“Yeah, that’s him,” Kuroo says with a smirk. “It’s just like Oikawa to land someone with money.”

“Dude.” Bokuto’s eyes are huge.

Kenma rolls his eyes.

Oikawa and Hajime return just as Bokuto and Akaashi are fixing to leave. They look rumpled, and Kuroo wrinkles his nose.

“Do you know how much bacteria is in public toilets?” he asks. “That’s disgusting.”

Oikawa sticks out his tongue. “We didn’t _do_ anything, Tetsun. So your concern is sweet but unnecessary.”

“Dude, way to go bagging a millionaire’s son,” Bokuto says, holding up his hand with a grin.

Oikawa smacks his hand against his palm, even as Akaashi rolls his eyes. Kenma feels a hand at his elbow and turns toward Hajime, as the other stuffs his hand back into his pocket.

“So, uh, Oikawa told me you were the one who texted me. Thanks.”

Kenma stares at the floor between them, his cheeks feeling warm. He shrugs one shoulder. “Don’t mention it.” _It was for mostly selfish reasons . . ._

“I, um, I wanted to ask you something.” Hajime lifts his hand to scratch behind his ear. “I know I need to talk to my dad about all this. I want to try and get Oikawa his job back, or at least keep him from ruining his reputation. I can’t risk Oikawa’s big mouth in front of him again, so I was . . . wondering if you wouldn’t mind coming along.”

Kenma blinks rapidly. Lifting his head, he squints at Hajime. “You want _me_ to go with you?”

Hajime nods. “You’re smart and calm and . . . I don’t know. I think I’d feel more confident if you had my back.”

Kenma glances at Kuroo, who’s leaning on Bokuto’s shoulder, laughing at something he said. “Kuroo’s probably better at diplomacy,” he says, looking back at Hajime quickly.

“Maybe,” Hajime says with a faint smile. “But I don’t know him very well, and he might say something in Oikawa’s defense that’ll offend my dad. You’re a more neutral party, I think.”

Kenma chews on his lip. Anxiety twists his stomach, at the thought of meeting a stranger with the reputation Iwaizumi-san has. What will he think when he sees Kenma? Will he ask him questions about who he is? Where he’s from? What will Kenma even say if Hajime needs him to defend him at some point?

“I don’t need you to say anything to him,” Hajime continues softly, almost as though he could read Kenma’s mind. “I’d just . . . like someone there with me. To draw strength from.”

“I’m not strong,” Kenma says, shaking his head.

Hajime’s lips twist. “I think you’re stronger than you realize.”

Kenma’s face feels hot once more, and he doesn’t know what to say, so he says the first thing that comes to him.

“I don’t have a business suit.”

Hajime smirks in a way that looks eerily familiar to Oikawa’s. “I know someone who can fix that.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s much too hot to wear a three-piece business suit complete with an undershirt and tie, but that’s what Kenma ends up wearing to see Hajime’s father. They stand beside each other in the elevator, Kenma feeling like he’s choking, and Hajime fidgeting with his collar.

“Why do you dress like this if you hate it?” Kenma asks, finally undoing the tie and stuffing it into his pocket. He unbuttons the first button of his shirt and finds he can breathe a little easier.

Hajime doesn’t follow suit. “I’m the son of one of the most powerful businessmen in Tokyo. I have to look the part.”

“No one expects you to be exactly like your dad.”

Hajime glances down at him. “My father does.”

Kenma frowns, but the doors open before he can reply. He steps out alongside Hajime, noticing how the man’s steps falter the further they walk into the room. The floor is marble, everything sleek and modern. The waiting area has comfortable-looking white chairs and modernist paintings on the walls. There are floor-to-ceiling windows surrounding them, and the three offices past the receptionist’s desk have glass walls. Two of the offices are empty, but inside the farthest one in the back paces a middle-aged Japanese man, talking on the phone.

Hajime stops by the receptionist’s desk, where a young woman with short brown hair gives Hajime a warm smile.

“Good evening, Iwaizumi-san.”

“Hey, Hana-san,” Hajime says, placing his hands on the desk’s counter and drumming his fingers absently. “Is my father busy?”

Hana nods. “He’s speaking to a client. Is this urgent?”

Hajime hesitates. “I guess n—”

Kenma nudges Hajime hard in the side, giving him a pointed stare. Hajime can’t start this off being passive. He’s here to fight for something he wants. Someone he wants. He has to be on the offensive.

Hajime clears his throat. “Uh, sort of. Could you just let him know I’m here?”

“Of course,” Hana says with a smile.

Kenma sighs. Shaking his head, he strides past Hajime toward the furthest office. Hana calls after him, “Sir! You can’t go in there!”

Hajime appears at his side, grabbing his elbow to pull him to a stop. “What are you doing?” he demands, his eyes wide.

Kenma looks back at him flatly. “You’re his son. You should be able to talk to him whenever you need to.”

“I can’t interrupt him while he’s working,” Hajime insists, shaking his head.

Kenma rolls his eyes. “You’re not a child.”

He shakes off Hajime’s hand and knocks briskly on the glass door. Hajime inhales sharply, as his father turns to look at them. The resemblance between the two is rather striking, but while Hajime’s eyes are kind and green, his father’s are brown and harsh. He frowns, the lines in his forehead wrinkling further. Kenma wonders if he’s ever smiled in his life. Kenma lifts his hand to knock again, but Hajime grabs his wrist to pull it down.

“I got this,” he says, shaking his head.

Straightening, he opens the door and steps inside. Kenma follows, allowing the door to close behind him. Mr. Iwaizumi’s frown deepens, but he gestures for the two to sit in the chairs in front of his metal desk. Kenma sits, but Hajime remains standing.

“I’m going to have to call you back,” Mr. Iwaizumi says into his phone. “Yes, we’ll finalize everything then. Goodbye, sir.”

After placing the phone into its cradle on the desk, Mr. Iwaizumi turns toward his son with a raised eyebrow. “What have I told you about interrupting me while I’m working?”

Hajime exhales slowly. “With all due respect, sir, this is important.”

Mr. Iwaizumi glances toward Kenma, who looks away, trying his best to be invisible. “Who is this? Another one of your . . . dalliances?”

Hajime bristles. “Oikawa isn’t a dalliance. I love him, sir.”

Mr. Iwaizumi levels his son with a look. “I cannot allow that. I meant what I said before. Your reputation, _my_ reputation, means everything in this business. Do you think people would want to do business with someone who . . .” He gestures vaguely.

Hajime’s jaw twitches. “Loves another man?”

Mr. Iwaizumi sighs. “I’m doing what’s best for you, son.”

“Our clients shouldn’t care about what goes on in our personal lives,” Hajime insists, shaking his head. “Our work speaks for itself!”

“In an ideal world, yes; but there will always be people who will take our personal lives into account!” Mr. Iwaizumi’s voice grows louder, but Hajime doesn’t back down.

“Then maybe we shouldn’t be doing business with those types of people,” he says flatly.

Kenma stares outside of the office window, looking at the twinkling lights of the city, as the sun begins to set. The tension in the room is thick, weighing heavily on Kenma’s chest. He’s uncomfortable, but he remains where he sits, offering his silent support.

“Hajime,” Mr. Iwaizumi says calmly, taking a step toward his son. “You have your mother’s optimism, and her gentle spirit. I know letting go of Oikawa-san may be difficult, but it’s for the best.”

“How?” Hajime asks sharply. “If I’m not happy, how is it for the best?”

Mr. Iwaizumi sighs. “I’m afraid, sometimes in order to be successful, we don’t get to be happy.”

“Then maybe I don’t want to be successful,” Hajime says tightly. “I quit.”

Mr. Iwaizumi frowns. “Hajime, think about what you’re doing.”

“I have thought about it. I’m not like you, father. I can’t simply do my job and be satisfied knowing I’m successful. I want a _life_. I want to be happy with the man I love.”

Mr. Iwaizumi stares at his son. Kenma peeks at them from behind his hair. Hajime’s face is set in determination, and Mr. Iwaizumi slowly nods, after a moment of silence.

“If you leave, I can’t guarantee that you’ll be successful elsewhere. I have provided everything for you, here. Out there, you’ll be on your own.”

Hajime shakes his head, his shoulders straightening, as he meets his father’s gaze. “No. I won’t be.”

He nods at Kenma, and Kenma takes the cue to stand. He follows Hajime, as he opens the door and exits the office. Before he leaves, however, Kenma pauses in the doorway, looking back at Mr. Iwaizumi.

“You should be proud that he knows what he wants, and he’s going after it,” he says. “You did the same, didn’t you?”

Mr. Iwaizumi blinks, his eyes widening slightly. Kenma doesn’t give him time to reply, before he shuts the door and hurries after Hajime. Once in the elevator, Hajime sags against the wall, running a hand through his hair.

“I-I can’t believe I did that. He’s going to disown me for sure, now.”

Kenma shakes his head. “He won’t.”

Hajime looks over at him, and his lips twitch in a faint smile. “Thanks for being here.”

Kenma shrugs and looks away. “You didn’t really need me.”

Hajime touches his shoulder lightly. “You believed in me. I needed that.”

Kenma glances at his hand on his shoulder before turning to stare at the descending numbers above them. “What will you do now?”

“Try to find a new job, I guess. I have a bit in savings that’ll keep me going for a little while. But both me and Oikawa are going to need to find work soon.”

“You should move in with him. Help cut costs in half.”

Hajime blinks. “You . . . think he’d go for that?”

Kenma snorts. “He’s crazy about you.”

He glances over to see Hajime smiling fondly at the floor. His chest seizes, and he looks back at the numbers. _Looks like they’re getting their happy ending, too . . ._

Kuroo deserve this, he thinks. He deserves to be happy with someone he can have a future with.

_What am I doing here? I should’ve moved on weeks ago. Why did I agree to stay?_

He knows why, though. He was tired of running. Tired of degrading himself for money and scraps of food. He feels . . . wanted, with Kuroo. He feels cared for, even loved. He hasn’t felt that in so long . . .

But does he really deserve it?

He remembers his nightmare and an involuntary shiver runs down his spine.

“You okay?” Hajime asks softly.

Kenma nods, stepping off the elevator and shoving his hands deep into his pockets, as he slouches forward and allows his hair to hide his face.

“I’m fine.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When Kenma and Hajime step into Kuroo’s apartment, its occupants accost them almost immediately. Kuroo leaps over the back of the couch, and Oikawa rises in a more dignified manner, but both practically sprint to stand in front of Kenma and Hajime, eyes wide.

“How did it go?” Kuroo asks, at the same time that Oikawa inquires, “what happened?”

“I quit,” Hajime says matter-a-factly.

Oikawa’s eyes grow impossibly wider. “You _quit_?” he screeches.

Kuroo winces, but he looks just as dumbfounded. “Dude.”

Hajime scuffs his foot against the floor, his neck glowing red, as he avoids Oikawa’s sharp gaze. “Yeah, well, I didn’t want to work there if I couldn’t have you. So . . .”

“Awww!” Oikawa’s expression softens, as his eyes shine wetly. “Iwa-chan!”

Throwing his arms around Hajime’s neck, he clings to him tightly. “I love you,” he murmurs, almost too quiet to hear. Standing directly beside them, however, Kenma hears everything.

He inches away slowly, uncomfortable in the growing intimacy of the moment. Oikawa leans back, taking Hajime’s face in his hands. “Don’t worry about finding a job right away,” he says, his usual confidence returning. “I’ve already talked with Akaashi’s agent, and I have an interview with the head of the agency tomorrow to be their publicist. I’ll take care of everything, I promise.”

Hajime shakes his head. “You don’t have to do everything yourself, Tooru. We’re in this together.”

Kenma’s practically at the kitchen now, having inched his way across the room. Kuroo notices once he tears his gaze away from the two in the hallway. He smirks, and Kenma stifles his annoyance at being caught. Clapping his hands together, Kuroo turns to Oikawa and Hajime, who appear to be seconds away from making out.

“Wow, that’s great news! You guys should really discuss this more at Oikawa’s place.” His grin is razor sharp, but Kenma can tell he’s glad for them.

Hajime pulls away with an embarrassed laugh, though Oikawa simply sticks his tongue out at Kuroo. “Don’t be jealous just because you haven’t made a move yet,” he says, his gaze shifting to land on Kenma.

Kenma stiffens, even as Kuroo hastily shoves the two out of his apartment.

“We can discuss my shortcomings another time. Have fun celebrating your temporary relief from capitalism,” he says, much too loud, before shutting the door behind them.

Kenma stares at the back of his head. Made a move?

He knows Kuroo is attracted to him. He’s not an idiot, and the man admitted as much himself. But does he really want to . . . make a move?

Does . . . _Kenma_ want him to?

“Don’t mind him,” Kuroo is saying, flustered and watching Kenma warily, almost like he fears Kenma will run.

Kenma’s heart twists painfully in his chest, as guilt fills him.

_He doesn’t deserve this._

“I’d say he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but I figure you already know Oikawa well enough to know he’s observant as hell, and we’ve been best friends since middle school, so it’s not like I can hide much from him, but if you’d rather just pretend he didn’t say anything, then that’s totally cool.” Kuroo’s rambling, hands running through his hair until it’s in a worse state than usual.

“Is it true?” Kenma asks flatly. He knows it’s probably a bad idea to ask, but he can’t stop himself. He needs to know.

Kuroo’s eyes widen. “Kenma, I-I . . . I would _never—_ ”

“But do you want to?”

Kuroo sighs, defeated. He runs his hand through his hair one last time, letting it rest on the back of his neck, before allowing it to fall helplessly to his side.

“Yes,” he admits, plainly.

There’s an apology in his gaze, and it makes Kenma angry, because he doesn’t have anything to apologize for. But he knows exactly why that expression is there, and it just irritates him further, because it’s his own damn fault.

Taking a step forward, Kenma keeps his gaze fixed on Kuroo’s.

“Because you care about me.”

“Yes,” Kuroo says, his voice softening.

“Because you like me.” Kenma steps closer, his hands trembling at his sides.

Kuroo bites his lip, looking away briefly before returning his gaze to Kenma’s face.

“Yes,” he says, and again there’s the apology hidden in his tone.

“ _Why_?”

Kuroo lifts his hands to the side in a defeated gesture. “Because, Kenma . . . you’re amazing.”

Kenma frowns. “No, I’m not.”

“Look, I know you hate yourself for some reason, but the fact is you’ve done nothing but good since you got here. You have no idea how lonely I’ve been, and having you here . . . but it isn’t even just that. You helped me make things better with Bokuto, too. Hell, you even helped Oikawa and Iwaizumi. You didn’t have to, but you did. You’re supportive and compassionate, and you listen to people. You have no idea how much you’ve improved our lives by being here.” He looks down at Kenma earnestly, his expression open and vulnerable. “How much you’ve improved _my_ life.”

Kenma inhales sharply, his heart pounding in his ears. He knows he should walk away. Change the subject. He can’t get tangled up in complicated emotions. Any day now something might happen to bring his past to light, and then Kuroo will take back everything he just said. He won’t want him anymore. It’s futile to think they can take this anywhere.

But that doesn’t stop Kenma from _wanting_. And in the end, he’s going to get hurt either way, isn’t he? They’re both in too deep for either of them to walk away unscathed if the truth reveals itself. Kenma can see that fact plainly written on Kuroo’s face this very moment.

So he gives in. He lets go.

It’s stupid. It’s rash. It goes directly against every single rule Kenma has given himself since that horrible mistake five years ago.

But five years is a long time.

Maybe . . . things can be different this time.

Kuroo takes a step back in surprise, at Kenma’s sudden lunge. His back hits the wall near the coat rack, as Kenma falls against his chest. He places one hand at Kuroo’s waist, as the other reaches behind his head, pulling him down in order to press a kiss against his mouth.

Kuroo’s stunned for only a second, before he’s grabbing Kenma around the waist, his fingers curling into the material of his suit jacket tightly. He kisses him back, his lips searing Kenma’s with heat and a tingle that travels through his entire body. Kuroo’s firm but not overbearing. He doesn’t try to push Kenma into a deeper kiss, only moves his lips gently, unhurried despite the tremble that’s shaking his own body. Kenma can feel the rapid beat of his heart, the speed of his pulse against the palm of his hand.

He squeezes his eyes shut tightly, as he parts his lips and allows Kuroo’s to slot in between them. Kuroo moans, soft but audible, and his fingers splay against Kenma’s back, pressing him closer. Kenma buries his fingers in Kuroo’s hair, twisting into the surprisingly soft strands. His blood rushes in his ears, his heart threatening to burst out of his chest.

Heat floods his veins. He’s flushed; his breath coming in short quick bursts through his nose. Kuroo’s lips are warm and soft. He smells like the café, and when Kenma gently, carefully, slips out his tongue to slide it along Kuroo’s upper lip, he thinks he can taste the coffee Kuroo had late in his shift.

Kuroo moans again, at the touch of Kenma’s tongue. He opens wider for Kenma, inviting him inside. Kenma can’t stop himself from delving deeper, entering with a quiet whimper, as an ache starts to build deep inside of him. It’s warm and wet inside Kuroo’s mouth. He wants more. He wants to touch Kuroo, to feel his touch on him. He wants there to be no barriers between them, to be as intimate and close as two people can be.

He hasn’t felt a want this strong since . . .

Kuroo shifts one hand to cradle the side of Kenma’s face, bending further down in order to enter his mouth with his own tongue this time, sweeping along the inside of it with another moan, this one lower and hungrier than the last.

Since . . .

Kenma’s body tremors, as he fights back the memory. He’s with Kuroo. He doesn’t want to think about anything else. He doesn’t want to remember.

But as the ache grows stronger, so does the familiarity of it.

His chest seizes in recognition of the desire.

 _Kuroo. Kuroo. I want to be with Kuroo._ He thinks the name desperately, trying to hold onto it, hold onto _him_.

But it’s no use.

_[He’s back in that room, Tora’s room. There’s thunder rolling in the distance, but neither Tora nor Kenma notice. Tora’s too excited about their win, and Kenma’s too preoccupied with the post-victory kiss Tora planted on his cheek. In front of everyone._

_It doesn’t mean anything, he keeps telling himself. It’s what he’s told himself for the past year and a half, every time Tora flung his arm around Kenma’s shoulder. Every time Tora grinned at him, his eyes bright and happy. Every time he played with Kenma’s hair absently while they watched TV, curled up together on the couch with Akane taking up the small space between them._

_But a kiss should mean something, shouldn’t it? You don’t just go around kissing people. Tora doesn’t, at least._

_Neither does Kenma._

_“They’re going to scout us for sure! They’d have to! We’re champions! We’re probably going to be able to play in college, and then it’s the National team! We’re gonna be famous!” Tora is pacing throughout his room, his voice loud and energetic, just like always._

_It used to bother Kenma. These days, his world feels empty without the sound of Tora’s voice._

_He hates going home to an empty house, to his distant parents who rarely show him affection simply because they’re never around to display it. At the Yamamoto’s, he’s showered in affection. Sometimes to the point where he has to escape to get some breathing room. But the knowledge of how much he’s adored, how much he’s **wanted** , makes it all worth it._

_The Yamamotos are affectionate and emotional people. Kenma knows this. It’s quite possible that Tora meant nothing by the kiss._

_But Kenma wants it to mean something. He wants it so badly, he feels like his heart is going to burst._

_“Yo, Kenma,” Tora drops to the floor in front of Kenma, grinning breathlessly. “You okay? You’re excited about this too, right? I mean, what if we get to play together in college? And then, you and me, on the National team. You’d be my setter, and we’d break through any wall, just like we did today. Just think about it! We’d be partners forever!”_

_Partners. Forever._

_Kenma stares at Tora’s face, at his flushed happiness, his glittering eyes full of joyful, grateful tears._

_He does something stupid. He does something rash._

_He leans forward and plants an awkward, uncoordinated, yet earnest kiss directly onto Tora’s smiling mouth._

_Tora jerks back, as though he’s been burned._

_He stares at Kenma in shock and confusion._

_The room spins._

_“Kenma?”_

_“I have to go.”_

_Kenma stands abruptly, running out of the bedroom, out of the house. Tora doesn’t call after him. Kenma doesn’t blame him. After all, he just ruined everything._

_The sky opens up, and the rain starts to fall._ ]

“Kenma?”

Kenma jolts back to the present. He realizes he’s standing completely still in Kuroo’s arms, his breaths coming in quick, short gasps. His chest has constricted around his lungs and rapidly beating heart. He feels dizzy, the pain sharp behind his ribs. Kuroo’s gaze is concerned, and his hands move from Kenma’s back to his arms.

“Kenma, breathe,” he instructs, rubbing Kenma’s arms up and down in a slow, soothing gesture. “Come on, in and out. With me, okay?”

Kenma blinks, not sure he can draw in any deep breaths. But he tries anyway, inhaling shakily as Kuroo does and holding it until Kuroo exhales. Kuroo nods encouragingly.

“Good, again.”

Kenma inhales, able to draw in more air this time. He exhales slowly, keeping his eyes on Kuroo’s face. He feels a pang of guilt at the man’s worried expression, but Kuroo says nothing, only continues to breathe, in and out, slow and steady. Finally, Kenma finds his heart rate returning to a more normal pace, though it’s still quickened with adrenaline.

Kuroo releases him, taking a step back.

“I’m sorry,” he says, grimacing. “That was . . . too much, probably.”

Kenma doesn’t want Kuroo to feel bad, but he can’t speak to reassure him. There’s a lump in his throat the size of Kiki. He can only shake his head, but Kuroo’s already moving away from him, busying himself with something in the kitchen. He comes back a moment later with a glass of water, holding it out to Kenma.

Kenma takes it slowly.

“Why don’t we just . . . do something low-key?” Kuroo suggests. “Watch some more anime or something.”

It wasn’t supposed to go like this. Kenma thought that if he let himself have Kuroo, he’d be able to move on. But now all he can think about is Tora’s expression, the rain falling hard against his skin, the flashing lights on the street . . .

“Hey,” Kuroo says gently, leaning down to look into Kenma’s face. He brushes a strand of hair away from Kenma’s eyes in a tender gesture that makes Kenma’s chest ache even more. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

_I’m not okay._

He wants to tell him. He wants to admit everything, to spill out the entire dark, terrible story. Maybe Kuroo won’t be disgusted with him. Maybe Kuroo will hold him and tell him that it wasn’t his fault.

Or maybe he’ll call the police and have Kenma sent away, out of his life forever.

“Kenma?”

Kenma blinks, pulling himself back into the present. The worried look hasn’t left Kuroo’s gaze. There’s anxiety there, too, taut in the lines of Kuroo’s face.

“Kenma, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“Stop,” Kenma says, not wanting to hear any more apologies. Nothing Kuroo has done since they’ve met has been wrong or harmful. He has nothing to apologize for. The very fact that he feels like he needs to apologize is evidence that Kenma’s already hurting him.

“I just . . . want to sleep.”

Kuroo straightens, biting his lip. “Yeah, okay. Sure.”

Walking to the couch, he starts pulling off the pillows in order to remake the bed. Kenma looks down at the glass of water in his hand. He’s not thirsty, but he takes a drink anyway, not knowing what else to do.

When Kuroo’s done making the bed, he stands beside the couch, watching Kenma miserably.

“If you need anything else . . .”

“I’m fine.”

Kuroo winces. It’s barely perceptible, but Kenma catches it. It makes the guilt churn harder. He feels sick.

Once again, acting on impulse has ruined everything.

Walking over to the couch, he sets the glass down on the coffee table. He turns toward Kuroo, then, staring at his chest for a moment. He can still feel Kuroo’s lips against his. Taste him inside his mouth.

He wonders if he’ll ever get the chance to taste him again.

“I’ll just . . . be in my room. If you need anything,” Kuroo offers, turning to leave.

“Kuroo,” Kenma says quickly. He can’t let the night end like this.

Kuroo hesitates, glancing back at Kenma.

Striding forward, Kenma throws his arms around Kuroo’s waist, hugging him tightly. Kuroo stiffens in surprise, before relaxing with a deep sigh, returning the embrace. He buries his face in Kenma’s hair. Kenma can feel the warmth of his breath against his scalp.

“I don’t know what happened earlier,” he murmurs softly. “But whenever you want to talk, I’m here.”

Kenma squeezes his eyes shut.

_You deserve better._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://shions-heart.tumblr.com/


	7. I'll Keep You Safe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everyone! I'm so sorry this update took so long. Uni really kicked my butt this month ;;; things finally started winding down this past week, though, so I was able to finally finish this chapter!
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> ((there's smut near the end of this chapter. To skip it, stop at "But then he adjusts" and resume at "You okay?"))

When Kuroo was five, his father abandoned his family for another woman. As a result, he and his mother became very close, as he grew older. He came out to her first when he discovered he liked guys, and she’s always been the most supportive person in his life.

So naturally, with all the confusion surrounding his feelings for Kenma and the incident with the kiss, the first thing he does is call his mom.

“Who is this?” Kuroo Ayame answers the phone in a crisp, sharp tone.

“It’s me, Mom,” Kuroo says, thinking that should’ve been obvious from her caller ID.

“Tetsurou? No, that couldn’t be _my_ Tetsurou. My Tetsurou never goes more than a week without calling his dear mother.”

Kuroo grimaces. “I’m sorry. There’s just been . . . a lot going on.”

“Too much to make time for your mother?”

“I have someone staying with me. Someone . . .” Kuroo hesitates, not entirely sure what to call Kenma. They’re friends, definitely. But after that kiss . . . after what happened _after_ that kiss . . .

He doesn’t really know anymore.

“Come to dinner tonight,” Ayame says, leaving no room for argument. “And bring your someone.”

Kuroo grimaces. “Uh, I don’t really . . .”

“See you later!”

She hangs up before Kuroo can protest further. He looks at his phone with a dismal frown, wondering how he’s going to convince Kenma to go have dinner with his mom. That feels almost . . . date-like. But knowing his mom, she’ll give him no end of grief if he doesn’t bring Kenma along.

_Maybe he won’t want to go._

It’s difficult to tell what Kenma is thinking these days. He’s a closed-off individual in general, but lately Kuroo has felt that secret Kenma’s holding grow larger between them. He was completely caught off guard by the kiss last night, and then when Kenma proceeded to have a panic attack, Kuroo has no idea what that means. Did he move too fast? But Kenma seemed into it at the time. And as soon as Kuroo felt him stiffen, he pulled away. He didn’t push. But what triggered the attack in the first place?

He doubts Kenma will tell him.

He steps out of his room, looking over at Kenma on the couch. He’s sitting up, Kiki on his lap. He’s stroking her absently, gaze fixed on the far wall. Kuroo wonders if he got any sleep last night.

“Hey,” he says gently, not wanting to startle him.

Kenma blinks, pulling his gaze off the wall to look at Kuroo. The briefest smile flickers across his lips before it disappears. He doesn’t speak.

Kuroo crosses the room. He hesitates by the couch before taking a seat. “My mom wants to meet you,” he says, staring at the wall himself, now. His skin feels somewhat shivery, and he wants to reach over and touch Kenma, but he isn’t sure if he’s allowed. That knowledge makes his chest tighten.

“It’ll be super informal,” he says, when Kenma doesn’t respond. He chances a glance to the side to see Kenma staring down at Kiki in his lap. “She mainly just wants to see me, I think. I haven’t visited her in a while. You totally don’t have to come, though. If you want to stay here—”

“I’ll go.”

Kuroo bites his lip. “Are you sure? I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

Kenma glances sidelong at him through his hair. “I’m sure,” he admits softly.

Kuroo’s heart pounds loudly in his throat. _What does this mean?_

“Cool, okay,” he says, forcing himself to be outwardly calm. “We’ll go after work, then.”

He has no idea what to expect.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The train ride to his mom’s neighborhood is short, so Kuroo doesn’t really have a lot of time to prepare himself. Instead, he watches Kenma beside him, wondering what he’d do if he tried to take his hand. His fingers twitch on his thigh. He curls them into a fist.

_Mom will know what I should do. Hopefully._

Kenma doesn’t appear nervous, as they approach the house, but Kuroo’s hands are damp. He still has no idea how he should introduce Kenma to his mom. Inhaling deeply, he enters the house, slipping out of his shoes.

“Mom?” he calls. “I’m here!”

Kenma toes out of his shoes, looking around the modest house. The front door leads immediately into the living room, where a couch sits on an ornate rug. In front of it is a coffee table, and in front of that is the television on a short bookshelf that holds mostly framed photos of Kuroo and Ayame, only one shelf housing actual DVDs.

A woman steps out from the kitchen, most of her wild black hair pulled up into a messy bun. She’s wearing an apron with tiny cats on it, which contrasts sharply with the black slacks and a red button-up blouse. Her makeup is still done, as well. Kuroo figures she just got back from work.

“Is that my long-lost son?” she asks, stepping over to hug him.

“It hasn’t been _that_ long,” Kuroo protests, even as he hugs her back.

She grabs his earlobe and yanks down. Kuroo yelps.

“It’s been long enough!” Ayame exclaims. “I did not raise my son to be so inconsiderate!”

“Mom!”

Ayame releases him when she notices Kenma. “Ah, this must be the someone keeping my son so occupied.”

Kuroo straightens, as he rubs his ear. “Mom, this is Kenma. Kenma, this is my mom . . . Kuroo Ayame.”

Ayame steps closer to Kenma, studying him. Kenma stares back at her. For a long moment neither of them speaks. Kuroo watches somewhat apprehensively, until Ayame reaches out to press her hand against the side of Kenma’s face briefly.

“You’re welcome here anytime,” she says firmly.

Kuroo watches as Kenma visibly relaxes. He hadn’t noticed the tension earlier, but he can see how it bleeds out of his form now, as he nods. Kuroo wonders if he really thought his mother would reject him. He gets the urge to walk over and sling his arm around Kenma’s shoulders, but instead he turns to the kitchen, sniffing.

“Smells good, Mom,” he says with a faint grin.

“I made your favorite,” Ayame says, steering Kenma toward the kitchen. “I hope you like fish, Kenma-kun, because my son didn’t tell me what you liked to eat.”

“You didn’t ask!” Kuroo throws his hands in the air.

His mother ignores him, setting Kenma down at the table with a glass of water. She proceeds to ask him questions, about his life and his family, and to Kuroo’s complete and utter surprise, Kenma answers them.

Well, more or less.

Sitting there eating grilled mackerel pike, Kuroo learns that Kenma isn’t in contact with his parents. He discovers that Kenma is an only child, and he didn’t graduate high school. He admits to having always wanted to work in games, but he didn’t get the chance to go to university. Kuroo wonders just how long he’s been on the run from whatever caused him to leave home.

He also notices how Kenma very carefully skirts around names, dates, and locations. He gives nothing away that would allow them to piece together where he’s originally from. So while Kenma opening up to Ayame may look like progress, it’s clear after a while that it’s not really progress at all.

Kuroo suppresses a sigh, trying his best to not get frustrated. He wants to pursue this feeling he has for Kenma, and with the kiss last night he thought that’s what Kenma wanted as well. But after he freaked out . . .

Kuroo doesn’t know what to think, anymore. It’s clear Kenma doesn’t trust him, not fully, yet he remains with him, came to meet his mom, kissed him. All this while _knowing_ how Kuroo feels about him.

What exactly Kenma’s endgame, here? What does he want with Kuroo?

After dinner is done, Ayame excuses Kenma to the living room, catching Kuroo by the sleeve to keep him in the kitchen.

“He’ll be along in a minute, I just want his help with the dishes,” she tells Kenma. Once he’s gone, she turns to Kuroo with eyebrows raised. “Well?”

Kuroo looks back at her miserably. “I think I’m falling in love with him,” he admits.

Ayame sighs, turning toward the sink to turn on the water. “You’ve always been a compassionate, loving person,” she says, shaking her head. “You’ve been that way since you were little. I was always afraid it would lead you into heartache, but I never tried to discourage it. I saw it as a strength, not a weakness.”

Kuroo picks up a plate, sticking it under the water to rinse and wash it. “I don’t know what to do,” he admits. “He won’t let me close to him. He’ll . . . sometimes it seems like he’s going to. He lets down his guard, lets me in, but then he closes himself off again. He’s afraid of something, of me knowing something about him. But I don’t know how to show him that no matter what it is, I want to work through it. I want to help him work through it.”

“It’s a tough situation,” Ayame agrees, taking the plate from him to dry it. “I can tell that boy’s been hurt deeply by something, or someone.”

Kuroo grabs another plate. “I know. But I’m not going to hurt him. I would never.”

Ayame tilts her head. “Sometimes it’s not a fear of others hurting you as much as it’s a fear of you hurting others. He may be afraid that whatever he’s hiding will hurt you in some way.”

Kuroo sighs. “I don’t care if it hurts me. I’ll get over it. I just want him to be able to trust me.”

Ayame smiles faintly. “It may simply be a matter of time.”

Kuroo knows that. He knows he should be patient. It’s only been two and a half months since Kenma landed on his head. In the grand scheme of things, that really isn’t very long at all.

But his heart aches. He wants to draw closer to Kenma, to pull him closer, too. He’s chased away Kuroo’s loneliness with his presence, but he hasn’t satisfied this deep longing Kuroo has to be wanted, to be needed, to be loved.

That longing grows sharper every time he looks at Kenma and feels the urge to touch him, to hold him, to kiss him. That longing to feel Kenma touch him back, hold him back, kiss him back. To reassure him that he’s the one Kenma wants more than anything.

But how can they have any of that without trust?

“So, what do I do in the meantime?” Kuroo asks, handing Ayame the last fork. “Suffer?”

Ayame grins crookedly. “Life is full of suffering, I’m afraid. I guess it’s up to you to decide if he’s worth it.”

In the end, Kuroo guesses his mom wasn’t that helpful after all. At least, not in the way he expected.

On the train ride home, Kenma yawns and closes his eyes, his head falling against Kuroo’s shoulder. Kuroo sits stiffly at first, staring across the aisle out the window in front of him, watching the buildings pass by. After a few minutes, however, he finds himself shifting. He wraps his arm around Kenma’s shoulders, holding him close. He reaches up to play absently with the ends of his hair and thinks on his mother’s words.

He realizes that she’s right. He has a decision to make.

He’s confused and full of longing, and he has no idea if that hunger for something more will ever be fulfilled. But he can either cut himself off from the suffering, or he can wait for Kenma to be ready. He doesn’t think it’ll take forever. He has faith it won’t.

And in this moment, with Kenma resting against him, face turned into his chest, his body heat warming him from the outside in, Kuroo decides that he’s worth the wait.

Turning his head, he drops a small kiss on top of Kenma’s head.

_I’ll be here, for as long as it takes._

 

 

 

 

 

 

“HEY, HEY, HEY, GUESS WHAT?!”

Bokuto steps into the café, eyes gleaming. Akaashi follows him, and beneath his outwardly calm exterior, Kuroo can tell he’s just as excited about Bokuto’s news as the former is.

“What?” Kuroo asks, leaning against the pastry display case with a grin.

“The last festival of the summer is gonna take place by the beach this year. It’s this weekend! We should totally go!”

Kuroo glances over at Kenma, his grin widening. “What do you say? Up for a festival?”

Kenma wrinkles his nose.

“Oh, come on,” Kuroo laughs. “It’ll be fun!”

“Yeah! We can get the whole group together!” Bokuto exclaims. “Dress up in traditional yukata! Win prizes for each other! Eat a ton of amazing food! Make out under the fireworks!”

Kuroo reaches across the counter to punch Bokuto in the arm. “Shut up,” he says, his face burning.

“Dude,” Bokuto says, rubbing his arm. “You’ve _got_ to get over this whole sexual tension you and Kozume have. Just fuck already!”

Kuroo wants to melt into the floor. He can’t bring himself to look over at Kenma, but instead he leaps over the counter and grabs Bokuto’s arm, yanking him toward the hallway that lead to the toilets.

“Dude, you gotta stop this,” Kuroo hisses, turning them so both their backs are toward Kenma and Akaashi. “Kenma and I are just friends.”

“Yeah, well, even I’m not dumb enough to miss the fact that you got the hots for him,” Bokuto hisses back. “And he’s totally into you, too!”

Kuroo throws his hands in the air. “How is it that you didn’t realize I was in love with you for _three years_ yet you can pick up on something like that after two months?!”

Bokuto shrugs. “I dunno. Maybe I was just too close to see it before. But what’s the big deal? You want it. He wants it. One plus one equals two!”

“It’s not that simple.” Kuroo runs his hands over his face, wishing his cheeks would cool. “He’s not . . . he doesn’t trust me, yet. Not completely. He’s still . . . hiding stuff from me.”

Bokuto tilts his head “You want me to interrogate him for you?”

“What? No, of course not.” Kuroo shakes his head. “I know what I’m doing, okay? I’ve got this.”

Bokuto shrugs. “Okay, dude. If you say so.”

Kuroo walks back to the counter, where Kenma and Akaashi abruptly stop talking. He tries to not worry about this, as he hops back over to take his place beside the register once more.

“Kenma-kun says he’d like to attend the festival,” Akaashi says. “I’ll be taking him shopping after your shift to buy him a yukata.”

“Oh.” Kuroo turns to Kenma in surprise. “You changed your mind?”

Kenma doesn’t look up at him. “I guess.”

It’s not a very enthusiastic response, but Kuroo can’t help but feel gratified. “It’s going to be fun,” he says, nudging Kenma lightly.

Of course this means he has to find a yukata himself, now. He had one when he was younger and would go to the festivals with his mom, but that was a long time ago and there’s no way they’d fit him now. And because Oikawa insists on inserting himself into every aspect of Kuroo’s life, he joins him after work to buy one.

“I think this outing is a great idea,” Oikawa says, as he walks alongside Kuroo. “It’ll be the first time all three pairs are together outside of lunch hour. Iwa-chan could use a night off, too. He’s been stressing himself out trying to get a new job.”

“He’s, like, the son of one of the wealthiest businessmen in Tokyo. How is he struggling to find a job?” Kuroo asks, stepping into a store that looks promising.

“He has high standards,” Oikawa says with a shrug. “He doesn’t want to work some crappy retail job. I can’t really blame him. But everyone he’s talked to seems reluctant to hire Iwaizumi’s son. They’re afraid he’ll bring down Iwaizumi’s wrath or something, since everyone knows the man didn’t let Iwa-chan go of his own accord.”

“That’s stupid,” Kuroo says absently, fingering the edge of a black yukata. “Anyone would be lucky to have him.”

Oikawa beams. “Does this mean you approve?” he asks.

Kuroo shoves him to the side. “You already know I do,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I admit. You caught a good one.”

“I know,” Oikawa says happily.

Kuroo pulls the yukata off the rack, inspecting it closer. It has a simple design with white and gray stripes. He folds it over his arm and goes to look at the obi. Oikawa follows.

“Speaking of catches,” he says, and Kuroo tenses.

“If you’re going to lecture me again about Kenma, I don’t want to hear it.”

Oikawa waves him off. “I’m not going to say anything _bad_. I was actually going to say that I might have underestimated the little Pudding-chan. He’s not as flighty as I thought he’d be.”

Kuroo hesitates, a red obi in his hands. “He kissed me,” he says.

“I will kill him immediately.”

Kuroo rolls his eyes. “It’s not like that. I . . . wanted it, too. But . . . I mean, is it normal for someone to have a panic attack while with you? I mean, that’s a bad sign, right?”

Oikawa studies him. “Pudding-chan is harboring some past trauma that has nothing to do with you, Tetsun.”

“I know, I know,” Kuroo says, setting down the red obi and picking up a white one. “But, I can’t help but wonder if it’ll happen again. I mean, if we try to pursue this . . . thing between us, is it always going to end up with him in a panic and me freaking out?”

“I don’t have an answer for you,” Oikawa says apologetically.

“Right.” Kuroo sighs, setting the white obi back down.

“You should get the red one, though,” Oikawa says.

Kuroo eyes it. “You think so?”

Oikawa nods. “It’s very striking. You’ll look hot.”

“Right, because _that’s_ totally the goal here.”

He picks up the red obi anyway, laying it against the fabric of the black yukata. It pairs pretty nicely he has to admit. He glances sidelong at Oikawa’s empty hands.

“You’re not getting anything?”

“Tetsun, when am I ever not prepared for a festival?”

Kuroo concedes this point and makes his way to the register.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They all agree to meet at the train station to head toward the beach, Akaashi apparently keeping Kenma with him until then. Kuroo spends a good thirty minutes in front of the mirror attempting to work his hair into some sort of manageable style, but each attempt ends in failure until he decides to simply give up altogether.

Oikawa was right, though. The red obi paired with the black yukata is pretty striking. He can’t help but wonder what Kenma’s wearing.

He feeds Kiki and grabs his backpack full of Just-In-Case supplies before heading out the door. He makes his way down to the train station, noticing a lot of people in similar traditional clothes arriving, as well.

He stands on the platform, looking for his friends. He spots Oikawa first, tall as he is, weaving through the crowd and pulling the shorter Iwaizumi along with him. They’re both wearing matching yukata, though inverted. Oikawa’s is a teal green with a white obi, and Iwaizumi’s is white with a teal green obi. Kuroo stifles a laugh when he sees them.

“Are you posing for Christmas cards?” he asks with a smirk.

“We look amazing, thank you very much,” Oikawa says, sticking out his tongue. “And I wouldn’t laugh just yet.”

Kuroo tilts his head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“HEY HEY HEY!” Bokuto bursts through the crowd, Akaashi following behind. They’re both wearing black yukata with strands of gold woven in a pinstripe design. Their obi are dark gold, as well.

“Hey,” Kuroo greets them with a grin. “Where’s Kenma?”

Akaashi steps aside, and Kuroo feels his heart leap, even as his stomach flips over itself. Kenma stands between Akaashi and Bokuto, fidgeting self-consciously. He’s wearing a red yukata with a black obi, the invert of Kuroo’s outfit. His hair has been re-dyed so the entirety of it is blonde, and it’s pulled back in a small bun held in place by a red rose hairpin. A few thick strands are loosely curled, framing his face, and when Kenma glances up at him briefly, Kuroo sees that he’s wearing eyeliner, like Akaashi usually does.

“I, uh, heh,” Kuroo states intelligently.

Kenma’s gaze skitters to the side. “I told them it was too much,” he mutters, reaching up to tug on one of the curls.

“No, no,” Kuroo says hastily. “You look . . . you look good. Great. Beautiful.” _Shut up!_

Kenma blushes faintly, which only makes him look that much prettier, and Kuroo is pretty sure his heart is gone somewhere, having danced straight out of his chest.

Oikawa nudges him hard in the back, causing him to stumble forward. He looks up and notices that they’re all staring at him with shit-eating grins.

“What the hell? Don’t tell me you were all in on this!”

“In on what?” Oikawa asks innocently. “Come on, we’re going to miss our train!”

The four of them scamper off, leaving Kuroo and Kenma to hurry after them. Kuroo finds himself snatching up Kenma’s hand in order to not lose him in the crowd, and Kenma lets him. Once they’re inside the train car, Kuroo releases him, grabbing onto the rail above them to keep his balance. Kenma ends up pressed close against his chest, and Kuroo thinks he can feel Kenma’s heart pounding rapidly.

“Looks like we’re on a date,” Kuroo can’t help but mutter with a faint grin.

He receives a slight punch in the ribs for the joke, but it’s worth it.

The platform they exit onto is also crowded with people, and Kuroo snatches up Kenma’s hand once more, as they weave through the mass of people. At one point he loses sight of Oikawa and Bokuto in the mass, but eventually the crowd thins out and they find each other outside the station. Bokuto and Akaashi are holding hands, as are Iwaizumi and Oikawa. Kuroo smirks.

“That’s cute,” he says.

Iwaizumi snatches his hand from an indignant Oikawa, but Bokuto simply beams and seems to grasp Akaashi’s hand tighter.

“Everyone else is holding hands!” Oikawa whines to his boyfriend.

Iwaizumi’s ears are bright red. “Fine,” he huffs.

“Yay~” Oikawa grabs his hand once more, lacing his fingers through them.

“Now that we’ve established this is a triple date, where to first?” Kuroo asks, brushing back his hair in order to peer down the street to where most of the people from the train are heading.

“I’m hungry!” Bokuto exclaims.

“Of course you are.”

“I could eat,” Akaashi admits.

“To the food!” Oikawa cries, and pulls Iwaizumi along, as he marches forward.

Kuroo laughs, shaking his head, and laces his fingers through Kenma’s, as they follow. They make their way toward the beach, every once in a while seeing someone one of them knows and greeting them. Kenma sticks close by Kuroo’s side, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. Kuroo gives his hand a reassuring squeeze at some point, and feels Kenma return it firmly.

They stop at a booth selling taiyaki, Bokuto insisting that they get some despite Kuroo telling him it’s not exactly something one eats for dinner. Everyone ignores his attempts at convincing them to eat something a little healthier first, and even Kenma grabs one to nibble on.

“Relax, _mom_ ,” Bokuto says, sticking out a tongue covered in red bean paste. “We’ll eat some meat later.”

“I hope they have yakisoba here,” Iwaizumi says, sharing his taiyaki with Oikawa.

“See, _that’s_ a real meal,” Kuroo says, pointing to Iwaizumi.

“Yeah, but it’s not as _fun_ ,” Bokuto insists. “This is shaped like a fish!”

Kuroo simply shakes his head despairingly. Kenma nudges him and holds out a piece of his taiyaki, blinking slowly. Kuroo finds himself taking it sheepishly, as the others chuckle.

“Dude, you’re so whipped,” Bokuto says.

“Whatever.” Kuroo grabs his head and forces him into a noogie, willing his cheeks to cool.

They move further down, taking in the sights and music and making idle conversation. At least, Iwaizumi, Oikawa, Bokuto, and Kuroo do. Akaashi remains quiet, only speaking here and there when his opinion is asked or Bokuto says something that he deems incorrect. Kenma remains silent. Iwaizumi tries to include him in the conversation once or twice (which Kuroo appreciates), but Kenma responds with either a shrug or a monosyllable.

Kuroo chews on his bottom lip, wondering if Kenma’s even enjoying himself.

Oikawa finds some animal masks and buys one for everyone. He hands Kenma a white cat face and Kuroo a black cat one.

“For the matching pair,” he says with a smirk.

“Speak for yourself!” Kuroo laughs.

Kenma pulls his on immediately, and Kuroo follows suit. He bends down to knock his mask’s nose against Kenma’s.

“Nya,” he says with a grin.

Kenma simply blinks at him, but Kuroo thinks he’s smiling. Iwaizumi’s given a bear, Oikawa takes a dragon, and Bokuto and Akaashi both take owls. Kuroo finds that walking with the mask on obscures his vision even more, so he ends up putting it on the back of his head, as he surveys the area for more things to do.

“Hey look, games,” he says, pulling Kenma over to a cork gun game.

“This is fun, right?” he asks, releasing Kenma’s hand to pay the vendor. He picks up one of the rifles, peering down its sights to a box of candy near the top. He fires, but misses by a few hairs.

“Nice shot,” Kenma says, deadpan.

“Hey, at least I’m participating!” Kuroo exclaims. He hands the gun to Kenma and pays the vendor for another cork. “You try it. It’s not as easy as it looks!”

Kenma shifts his mask onto the top of his head and hefts the gun to his shoulder, looking down the barrel at the box Kuroo just attempted to knock over. His tongue pokes out of the side of his mouth, as he concentrates. Kuroo finds himself completely distracted by this, and he almost misses the shot being fired. The box of candy falls over, and the vendor retrieves it, handing it to Kenma.

Kenma sets down the gun with a slight bow, turning to Kuroo, then.

“Hmph, it was a lucky shot,” Kuroo decides.

Kenma smirks. “Or you just suck.”

Kuroo reaches for the candy, but Kenma pulls it away.

“Hey, I paid for that!”

“But I won it.”

“On my yen!”

“You should’ve won it, then.” Kenma ducks under Kuroo’s reaching hand, walking further up the street with a self-satisfied look on his face.

Kuroo can’t help but laugh. He jogs after him as best he can in the yukata. “You’re kind of a little brat, aren’t you?” He grins down at Kenma, reaching over to flick his mask to the side slightly.

Kenma says nothing, simply opens his hard-won prize to eat its contents.

“Don’t spoil your dinner!”

“Where did the others go?” Kenma ignores him, glancing around.

Kuroo does as well and realizes that they’ve lost sight of the other four. He turns around, peering back the way they came, grateful for his height. He still can’t seem to spot them in the crowd, however. He grabs Kenma’s elbow, guiding him to the side of the street, as a group of dancers appear. Just then, he hears his phone ringing in his backpack.

Quickly, he reaches inside and pulls it out.

 **Tooru**  
_by now you will have noticed that we’ve disappeared_ (20:32)  
_yes we’ve ditched you_ (20:32)  
_according to bokuto, you’re both in need of a little “push”_ (20:33)  
_have a nice date~_ (20:33)

Kuroo’s face feels warm. Kenma’s distracted by the dancers, watching them as they pass. Kuroo quickly stuffs his phone back into his backpack.

“Well, looks like it’s just you and me for now,” he says, as nonchalantly as he can.

Kenma glances sidelong at him. “They ditched us.”

Kuroo rubs the back of his neck. “Apparently, they think this should be an actual date, or something.” He shrugs, trying to laugh it off.

Kenma doesn’t say anything. Instead, he tugs on Kuroo’s sleeve and points to a booth across the street and two vendors over.

The booth appears to be selling various foods on sticks, and before Kuroo realizes it, Kenma’s halfway there. He hurries to catch up.

“Still with the Not-Actual-Food, huh?” Kuroo asks, shaking his head, even as he gets out some more yen.

Kenma ignores him and picks out a chocolate covered frozen banana. Kuroo’s pretty sure this is the worst idea ever, but he’s not about to say no to Kenma. Especially not right _now_.

He instantly regrets it, however, once they start walking again, and Kenma goes to town on the banana. With small licks and tiny sucks, he manages to get all the chocolate off before nibbling on the actual banana. By that point, Kuroo has to excuse himself to find a toilet, lecturing himself for a good five minutes about the cons of getting a boner in public at a summer festival.

When he returns, Kenma’s finished his snack and is now munching on the rest of his candy.

“You’ve completely ruined your appetite, haven’t you?”

Kenma doesn’t reply, but he looks pretty proud of himself.

Kuroo shakes his head, but he can’t help but smile. “You’re incorrigible,” he says, draping his arm across Kenma’s shoulders. He doesn’t stiffen or pull away, and Kuroo feels a swell of gratification.

“I think the fireworks will start soon. Want to try and find a good vantage point?”

Kenma nods, lips cherry red from the candy. Kuroo pulls his gaze away from them with some difficulty. Swallowing hard, he scans the area, wondering where they can go to get the best view. Most people will be down by the beach, he figures. But if there’s a pier or something . . .

“Kenma?”

Kenma stiffens beneath Kuroo’s arm. Kuroo glances down at him. He’s gone completely white, eyes widening.

“Holy fuck, Kenma, is that you?!”

Kuroo turns toward the voice. A few feet away, a young man around Kenma’s age stares at them, mouth agape. His hair is dark, save for a single band of blonde running down the middle of his head in a faux-hawk style. He’s holding the hand of a girl, a high schooler, maybe, whose light brown hair is pulled up into a bun similar to Kenma’s, with a sparkly pink flower holding it in place. She looks enough like the guy for Kuroo to deduce that she must be his sister.

“Hey—” Kuroo starts, but before he can make any sort of introduction, Kenma jerks away from him and takes off.

“Kenma! Wait!” The young man looks torn. He glances down the girl beside him, then toward the place where Kenma disappeared.

Kuroo feels the gears in his head turning.

But could that really be possible?

What are the odds that he would turn up here? After all these years?

“Tora, was that really Big Brother Kenma?” the girl asks, looking up at her brother. “He looks different.”

“I-I . . .” It’s obvious that Tora is in some state of shock.

Kuroo’s head spins. He realizes that if this is the Tora Kenma refuses to talk about, he could have the answer to all his questions right here in front of him.

He wants to ask. He wants to introduce himself and grill Tora about what happened.

But then he remembers Kenma’s face, how pale it looked. How terrified he seemed.

He leaves the two behind, as he pushes through the crowd to follow Kenma.

Above him, the sky explodes in a bouquet of sparkling lights.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It takes him almost an hour to find Kenma. After texting and calling and getting no answer, he tries searching the immediate area without luck. Stopping beside a yakisoba stand, Kuroo tries to think of the most likely place Kenma would go.

_If I were a small, terrified kitten, where would I hide?_

The answer comes to him almost immediately: somewhere dark, secluded, and quiet.

Hiking up the skirt of his yukata, Kuroo runs as fast as he can away from the festival. He pushes past people, apologizing all the while, nearly gets whacked in the face by a child waving a fan over her father’s shoulder, and trips over his zori at least three times, before he finally reaches an area where the crowd has thinned.

It’s there that he spots it, a café they passed on the way there. He slips inside.

It’s practically empty, aside from a few elderly patrons and, of course, the staff. Near the back of the room, sitting alone at a corner table, is Kenma.

He has an iced coffee in front of him, whipped cream gone, but most of the actual coffee still present. Its condensation has left a ring of water around the base, but Kenma’s simply staring at it, hands wrapped around the cup.

Kuroo carefully slides into the chair across from him.

“Hey,” he says.

Kenma doesn’t look up. They sit in silence for a few minutes, as Kuroo wrestles with whether or not to ask him about what just happened. Kenma’s shoulders are curled inward, and he’s lost his rose hairpin, his hair slipping from its bun. His eyes are wide and vacant, and Kuroo has no idea what he’s thinking.

The ice in Kenma’s cup rattles, and that’s when Kuroo realizes that Kenma’s trembling.

He reaches out to touch the back of Kenma’s hand lightly. He flinches. Kuroo bites his lip but doesn’t pull away.

“Hey,” he says again, gently. “You want to go home?”

After a moment, Kenma nods.

Pushing down his disappointment, Kuroo stands and holds out his hand. It takes another few seconds for Kenma to respond, but eventually he reaches up and takes Kuroo’s hand. Kuroo gives it a firm squeeze, pulling his phone out of his backpack with the other.

>> _kenma’s not feeling well. gonna take him home_ (23:43)

 **Akaashi**  
_Understood. I’ll tell the others._ (23:43)

It feels a little weird to be texting Akaashi of all people, but he knows Bokuto will take his words out of context, and Oikawa will be too nosy. He realizes he’s going to need to get Iwaizumi’s number at some point.

He continues holding Kenma’s hand, as he leads him out of the café and back toward the train station. Kenma’s quiet, but not in the way he usually is. He’s withdrawn; his walls have slammed shut once more. Kuroo’s chest aches, and he again has to fight the urge to ask what the hell _happened_.

“Are you okay?” he finally ventures to ask, because he has no idea what else to say. He grimaces then, realizing his error. “Sorry. That was a stupid fucking thing to ask.”

As they reach the station, he pulls his hand away in order to wrap his arm around Kenma’s shoulders. He bends to press his lips against the top of Kenma’s head, closing his eyes briefly.

“I’m here for you,” he murmurs, really hoping Kenma knows that.

The train arrives, and they board. It’s practically empty, considering most people are still at the festival. They find a place to sit, and Kuroo keeps his arm around Kenma, staring out the windows at the fireworks, as the train pulls away.

The silence is deafening. Kuroo can hear his own heartbeat pounding in his chest, the rushing of his blood in his ears. He feels completely out of his element. He has no fucking idea what to do. He wishes he could call his mom.

_You’re an adult, Tetsurou. You can handle this._

That’s what he tells himself, at least. He doesn’t believe it.

He’s still riding the coattails of his own emotional turmoil. How is he supposed to help Kenma through his? Especially when he doesn’t even know _what_ type of turmoil he’s experiencing?

He wants to be there for him. He wants Kenma to feel safe and loved and happy. He wants him to feel like everything is going to be okay. But how can he promise that when he honestly doesn’t know if it will be?

“Kuro,” Kenma murmurs, turning his face into Kuroo’s chest.

Kuroo’s heart flips over itself. That . . . wasn’t _quite_ his name. A nickname?

He clears his throat. “Yeah?”

But Kenma doesn’t say anything else.

They arrive at Kuroo’s home station, and Kuroo gently leads him off the train. They make their way back to his apartment, and Kuroo feels as though he’s gained ten years by the time he steps through the door and kicks off his zori.

Kiki comes meowing around the corner, heading straight for Kenma. Kuroo decides that’s fair and watches as Kenma scoops her up and buries his face in her fur. He shifts on his feet awkwardly.

“Uh, you want some . . . water or something?”

Kenma shakes his head, face still buried. Kiki touches her nose gently against Kenma’s head like little kisses. Kuroo’s chest squeezes around his heart.

Feeling completely helpless, Kuroo makes his way back to his room, guessing he might as well get ready for bed. He struggles some with the obi but manages to get it off. He tosses his backpack into a corner before slipping out of the yukata. He folds it carefully, his mind still spinning, still trying to think of ways he can comfort Kenma.

He nearly jumps out of his skin, when he feels a soft touch on his arm. He whirls around, heart racing, to see Kenma blinking up at him, still dressed but sans Kiki. Kuroo is suddenly intensely aware of his own state of undress, being only in a pair of boxer shorts that he was wearing beneath the yukata.

“K-Kenma! What are you—”

He doesn’t have time to finish before Kenma’s grabbing the back of his neck, pulling him down to meet him in a fierce kiss. Kuroo stiffens in surprise, even more clueless as to what’s going on than before. He places his hands carefully on Kenma’s shoulders, pushing him back slightly to look down at him.

“What’s going on?” he asks, searching Kenma’s face for an answer. “ _Talk_ to me.”

He can feel the way Kenma’s trembling beneath his hands, and he instinctively curls his fingers more firmly into his shoulders.

“I can’t,” Kenma whispers.

“You’re upset,” Kuroo says helplessly, trying to understand. “That guy back at the festival . . . he recognized you. The girl called him Tora. Is he—”

“Stop,” Kenma cuts him off desperately, leaning up once more to kiss him.

Kuroo thinks he understands what Kenma’s trying to do. He wants a distraction. Comfort. He wants to use Kuroo for those things. Kuroo has to take a moment to think about whether he minds or not. He pulls away once more, frowning slightly down into Kenma’s face. He knows this won’t solve anything. If he lets this happen, Kenma’s still going to be battling his demons when they wake up, and Kuroo’s still going to be in the dark about what’s going on or how he can help.

“This won’t make it go away,” he warns Kenma softly, reaching up to brush a strand of his hair behind his ear.

“I know,” Kenma mutters, adverting his gaze. “I just . . .”

“Don’t want to think about it?”

Kenma shakes his head. Kuroo sighs, completely torn. It’s not that he _doesn’t_ want this. But at the same time, he doesn’t want it like this.

But it’s Kenma.

“Okay,” he says finally. “But not too far.”

He can’t bring himself to be completely selfless.

Kenma glances toward the bed. “Can I sleep here, at least?” he asks.

Kuroo nods. “Of course.” He can’t help but smirk faintly. “You think I’d kick you out?”

Kenma doesn’t respond, simply starts tugging on his obi. Kuroo stops him. He leans down to brush his lips against Kenma’s forehead. “Let’s get ready for bed, first,” he says.

Kenma nods and steps back, allowing Kuroo to pick up his yukata and obi and walk over to the dresser to put them away. He grabs his pajama pants and a pair of clean boxers, thinking it’d probably best to actually wear something under his pants tonight.

He goes into the bathroom to change and brush his teeth, and when he exits, Kenma slips past him to brush his own. His hair is down, now, and he wears only Kuroo’s shirt, as he usually does. Kuroo can’t tell if he’s wearing his boxer-briefs with it or not, but he tries to not think about that.

After feeding Kiki, Kuroo makes sure the front door is locked and turns off all the lights, before heading back towards his room. His heart pounds rapidly in his chest, and his entire body feels much too warm. When he steps through the doorway, his breath catches in his throat. He didn’t think the sight of Kenma in his bed would affect him this much, but he’s suddenly aware of every breath he’s taking.

Kenma blinks back at him. He washed his face, but apparently couldn’t get all the eyeliner off. It rims his eyes in a smokey hue, making him look that much more alluring. Kuroo swallows hard.

_This is a really bad idea._

He steps into the room and kicks the door shut, not wanting any uninvited guests. He walks around to the empty side of the bed and gets beneath the covers. Kenma turns to look at him, hand folded beneath his head.

Kuroo stares back at him, mouth dry.

“We don’t have to . . .” Kenma starts, eyes flickering down to the space between them.

Kuroo reaches up to smooth Kenma’s hair back. “I’m just nervous,” he admits. “I . . . I _really_ like you, Kenma.”

Something that looks like guilt crosses Kenma’s face, before he adjusts his expression.

“I know you don’t think I should,” Kuroo continues quickly. “But I know you like me, too. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have kissed me. You wouldn’t let me touch you like this.” He traces his fingertips over Kenma’s cheekbone and down the line of his jaw. Slowly, though, he pulls back. “I don’t know what happened tonight, and I still think we should talk about it, but if this will make you feel better right now, then I want to.”

Kenma stares at him for a long moment. He inches closer, then, until their noses are centimeters apart. Kuroo finds himself holding his breath, looking back at Kenma and wishing his heart wouldn’t feel like it’s about to explode.

Kenma wrinkles his nose suddenly. “Do I have to start?”

Kuroo smirks slowly. “Wait, are you nervous, too?”

Kenma frowns. “. . . No.”

“You are. You’re totally nervous.”

“I am not.” Kenma’s cheeks start to redden.

“Are too,” Kuroo teases, already feeling some better.

“Are not.

“Are too.”

“Are not.”

“Are t—”

Kenma cuts him off with a kiss. Kuroo responds immediately this time, wrapping his arm around Kenma’s waist and pulling him closer, as he kisses him back warmly. It’s so reminiscent of another time, another night of stolen kisses and hesitant touches beneath the covers of a shared bed, that his chest aches at the memory. But then he adjusts.

He curls his fingers into his shirt that Kenma’s wearing, moving his lips slowly against his. It’s different. Kissing Kenma is different than kissing Bokuto, and he concentrates on those differences, on how Kenma makes him feel. He traces his tongue over the small pouty lips, runs his hand down the lean waist and almost slender hip. He grabs hold of Kenma’s thigh, pulling it around his own, as he moves as close as he can.

Kenma’s fingers, long and nimble, tangle in his hair. He parts his lips, allowing Kuroo’s tongue to delve inside. He moans softly. It’s warm and wet and tastes of mint. Kenma shivers, and Kuroo slides his hand down further, slipping up under the hem of the shirt, past the boxer-briefs, in order to grab hold of the soft skin of Kenma’s side.

Kenma tugs on his hair, whining softly. His kiss grows slightly more aggressive, as he pushes his tongue against Kuroo’s until it retreats, allowing Kenma to enter Kuroo’s mouth instead. He explores only briefly before he pulls back and sinks his teeth into Kuroo’s lower lip, sucking lightly afterwards.

Kuroo can only half-stifle the growl of desire that purrs in his throat at the sensation. He grips Kenma tighter, and he has to resist the urge to roll over on top of him, pinning him to the mattress. He has to maintain at least _some_ self-control.

It grows more difficult, however, when Kenma shifts his hips, rubbing against the sensitive bulge in Kuroo’s pants. Kuroo breaks away from the kiss with a gasp, groaning softly as he presses his forehead against Kenma’s.

“Careful,” he pants, grinning crookedly.

Kenma pants as well, lips parted. He trembles, fingers twisting tighter in Kuroo’s hair. His cheeks are flushed, and Kuroo knows he’s probably not fairing much better on that front. His entire body feels warm, and there’s a growing ache down south that’s difficult to ignore.

Kuroo kisses Kenma’s nose lightly, then his cheek. He makes his way down his jaw and chin, before pressing a soft kiss against his lips.

“Are you feeling any better?” he asks hopefully.

“Too much talking,” Kenma murmurs, moving to kiss him again.

Time passes strangely, then. Kuroo isn’t sure how long they lay there. The kisses range from soft and sweet to eager and needy. At one point, Kenma grabs hold of his neck and begins to suck a bruise into his skin. Kuroo holds him close, gasping, grimacing at the pleasure that spikes heat through his veins. He can feel himself straining against his boxers, can feel the slickness of his pre-cum dampening it. But he simply curls his fingers into Kenma’s side and focuses on the feel of his lips and not how badly he wants to fuck him into the mattress.

Eventually, though, Kenma starts rocking against him, again. Kuroo shudders, as prickles of heat crawl under his skin. He can feel how hard Kenma is, and as he rubs himself against Kuroo, a soft whimper escapes his lips. Kuroo’s brain grows fuzzy at the sound.

“Kenma,” he gasps, sliding his hand to the small of Kenma’s back. He presses against it, helping to move Kenma against him more.

“Kuro,” Kenma whimpers into his neck, trembling, as he ruts against him, hips jerking in small, desperate movements.

“Fuck,” Kuroo groans, grimacing, as the ache of pleasure grows sharper. He wants more. His body is screaming for it. But he’s resolute in his decision, and he buries his face in Kenma’s hair.

Kenma bites down on his neck, and Kuroo hisses softly. In an attempt to help him out, Kuroo shifts his leg forward, slipping it between Kenma’s. He adjusts immediately, thrusting against Kuroo’s thigh. He grunts softly, frustration hidden beneath his tone, and Kuroo can tell he’s not getting enough friction.

“Hey, hey,” he says, shifting the arm trapped between him and the bed that’s been falling asleep for the past few minutes. It tingles, as he rests his hand against the back of Kenma’s head, stroking his hair gently. “Do you want me to get you off?”

Kenma huffs, slowing his movements. “Not without you,” he says petulantly.

Kuroo bites his lip. He pushes past the haze as best he can to weigh his options. Kenma obviously doesn’t want to cum without him, but he also very obviously wants to cum. Kuroo also wants to cum (quite desperately so), but he still doesn’t want his first time with Kenma to be just a distraction fuck. He wants it to _mean_ something. This will mean something too, of course, but not in the same way . . .

There are other things they can do, though. Things that don’t require the full performance. He pulls away to look down at Kenma.

“Turn around,” he murmurs.

Kenma frowns. “Why?”

“Just trust me,” Kuroo says, shaking his head slightly with a faint smirk.

Kenma hesitates briefly before turning to place his back to Kuroo. Sitting up, Kuroo shakes out his tingling arm, flexing his hand, as he reaches for the bedside table. He opens a drawer and pulls out some lube, shifting his pajama pants and boxers down just enough to allow his erection to spring free. He sighs softly with relief once _that_ uncomfortable pressure is gone, and he moves to lie back down facing Kenma’s back.

Squeezing some of the lube into his hand, he places it on his cock with a soft hiss at the cool touch. He rubs up and down for a couple seconds, trembling at the pleasure, until he’s coated the entire thing in the slick gel.

He moves in close, then, as close as he can, until his chest is flush with Kenma’s back. He presses a kiss into the back of Kenma’s hair, as he reaches down and takes Kenma’s thigh in his hand once more.

“Open your legs for me,” he murmurs into Kenma’s ear.

Kenma shivers but does as he’s told. Kuroo shifts his hips forward, placing his cock against the warm skin of Kenma’s inner thigh. He moves Kenma’s leg back into place then, holding it firmly so he’s sandwiched between his thighs.

“Fuck,” he mutters against the shell of Kenma’s ear. “You’re so warm.”

Kenma bows inward slightly, trembling.

Slowly, Kuroo shifts back before thrusting forward. It’s somewhat difficult to move on his side like this, but he manages it. He fucks Kenma’s thighs slowly, shifting his hand up after a moment to slip it inside the front of Kenma’s boxer-briefs.

Kenma inhales sharply, as he wraps his hand around Kenma’s cock. The skin is slippery and warm, and as Kuroo begins to tug, he adjusts his thrusts so that his hips and his hand are in sync.

“Oh fuck, Kenma,” he groans, squeezing his eyes shut, as the pleasure surges stronger. Desire throbs through him, and he finds himself moving faster, unable to help it.

Kenma whimpers, under his touch, shuddering and squirming slightly, as he pants for breath. Kuroo keeps his grip firm, his tugs quick and precise. Every once in a while, when he remembers to, he drags his thumb across the slit at the tip, gathering sticky pre-cum and trailing it down the shaft.

“Kuro, Kuro, Kuro,” Kenma mutters, his body starting to stiffen.

Kuroo bites Kenma’s ear gently, grunting softly as he quickens his pace, his cock sliding almost effortlessly between Kenma’s thighs, trailing pre-cum along his flushed skin with each push and pull. His hips smack against Kenma’s ass, and for a brief moment he lets himself wonder how amazing it would feel to thrust inside the tight hole of Kenma’s ass.

That mental picture is all he needs to fall over the edge. His thrusts become disjointed, and his tugs grow sloppy, as he rides out the waves of pleasure with a cry that he muffles in Kenma’s hair. He spills out between Kenma’s thighs, and it’s only a few seconds later that Kenma inhales sharply and cums over Kuroo’s hand.

Kuroo sighs deeply, his body relaxing as the waves of pleasure fade into a tingly buzz. He continues to stroke Kenma’s cock lazily, feeling how it twitches and throbs in his palm, as it continues to gush out. Kenma mews softly, squirming and shuddering once more, as Kuroo draws out every last drop.

Finally, when Kuroo feels him start to soften and fall limp, he pulls his hand away. Kissing Kenma’s ear, he hoists himself up to grab the box of tissues also on the bedside table. He cleans his hand and puts the lube away, before fixing himself back up. He turns to look down at Kenma then, who’s still lying on his side, panting quickly.

“You okay?” Kuroo asks hesitantly, touching his shoulder. He didn’t do anything that would _hurt_ Kenma, but he also knows Kenma isn’t in the greatest emotional state at the moment.

Kenma nods after a moment, inhaling deeply. Kuroo carefully places the box of tissues on the bed in front of him. Kenma takes a few and cleans himself up, as Kuroo looks away to give him some privacy. Once he’s done, Kuroo gathers up the dirty tissues and tosses them in the trash bin by the door. He changes out of his damp underwear and gets back into bed.

Kenma turns to him then, cheeks still flushed. Kuroo brushes his knuckle against one gently. His chest swells with affection, and he has to bite back the words that threaten to slip out. He swallows them down with the lump in his throat.

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” he says, half a question and half a statement.

Kenma hesitates before nodding, once.

Kuroo kisses his forehead gently. “Do you need to change?”

Kenma shakes his head. “I took them off.”

Kuroo purses his lips. “I . . . probably didn’t need to know that,” he says with a breathless laugh. He boops his nose against Kenma’s gently. “If I wake up with a boner, I apologize.”

“I don’t care,” Kenma murmurs softly, stifling a yawn.

“We should sleep,” Kuroo says, smoothing some of Kenma’s damp hair back. “Things will get better,” he says, then, feeling more optimistic while riding the high of his climax.

“Okay,” Kenma says softly, though he doesn’t meet Kuroo’s gaze.

Kuroo decides there’s nothing more to do about it now, and wraps his arm around Kenma, holding him close as he buries his face slightly in his hair. As he closes his eyes, he tells himself that he did the right thing by letting Kenma distract them tonight. He needed something to help him wind down from all those volatile emotions. Tomorrow they’ll talk and figure out how to resolve things and then . . . and then maybe Kuroo can bring up the whole dating thing.

He feels better now that he has a plan, and he manages to fall asleep pretty quickly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He wakes to Kiki jumping on his chest.

Grunting softly, he squints up at her, as she kneads her paws into the blanket.

“How did you get in here?” he asks, groggily. He’s positive he closed the door last night.

Reaching to the side, his hand comes in contact with an empty pillow. Frowning slightly, he sits up. Kiki hops off his chest and off the bed, trotting out the open door.

_Did Kenma wake up before me?_

He glances at the clock. It’s six in the morning. Kenma usually isn’t up that early.

Pushing back the covers, Kuroo stands and follows Kiki out of the door.

When he gets to the living room, he stops abruptly, as his heart plummets to his feet.

The sheets and blankets Kenma uses to sleep on the couch are still neatly folded on the armrest where they usually are during the day. But everything else, Kenma’s 3DS, his knapsack of clothes, his phone, his shoes . . .

Everything of Kenma’s is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the lovely Moxie (amoxli on tumblr, amoxli_art on twitter) drew [Kenma in his festival date outfit!](http://shions-heart.tumblr.com/post/165603653130/amoxli-kenmas-date-outfit-in-run-to-me) look how gorgeous!
> 
> http://shions-heart.tumblr.com/


	8. Game Over

Kenma sits on a bench on a train station platform, staring unseeing at the people standing around waiting for their train. Two trains have already arrived and left, and yet Kenma continues to sit, his knapsack between his feet, his phone clutched in his hands. He turned it off a few hours ago, not wanting to face the influx of texts and calls he’ll inevitably receive.

He hates this. He doesn’t want to be here.

But where else can he go? He can’t stay with Kuroo. Not after he’s seen Tora. Not when all the secrets Kenma’s so carefully tucked away are threatening to break the surface. He closes his eyes and swallows hard, his chest aching like a knife is carving away slices of his heart, piece by bloody piece.

He doesn’t want to remember, but his mind goes to the previous night anyway. To the feeling of Kuroo’s lips, his skin, the weight of his arm around Kenma, the touch of his hand, the slick heat of him between Kenma’s thighs. He remembers the sound of Kuroo’s breathing, his husky voice saying Kenma’s name with such reverence.

It was everything Kenma wanted, and yet it still wasn’t enough. Kenma craves more. He wants to be Kuroo’s, wholly and completely, forever. But he can’t be. Not while he still has this secret. Not when Kuroo could send him away as soon as he knows the truth.

And Kenma would’ve told him, that’s the scariest part. If Kenma had stayed, he would have told Kuroo everything.

He doesn’t want to run anymore.

Which begs the question of why he’s here, staring as another train boards its passengers and glides away into the distance.

_Coward._

Kenma clutches his phone so tightly, that his knuckles turn white. The moment he heard Tora’s voice at the festival, at first he thought he was hallucinating. But then he heard him again, and all the pain that he’d buried came rushing back. He shouldn’t have run. Not then, and not before. He should’ve stood his ground and faced the consequences of his actions. But the thought of Tora hating him, of blaming him for everything when he already blamed himself, it was too much. Sixteen-year-old Kenma couldn’t handle it, and twenty-one-year-old Kenma isn’t sure he can, either.

_Back then, though, I was alone. I had Kuroo, this time. Maybe that would’ve made it easier._

It’s too late, now.

“You know, most people, when they go to the train station, actually get on the train.”

Kenma stiffens. He doesn’t look up, even as Kuroo comes to sit beside him. Instead, he hunches forward, wishing he could turn invisible. Wishing he’d gotten on the train. He peeks through his hair at Kuroo, but the man isn’t looking at him. He’s staring off into the distance, rubbing his palms absently on his knees. Kenma thinks he sees a tinge of pink in the eye closest to him, and guilt slams hard into his chest.

“I thought you might be here,” Kuroo says, running a hand through his hair. “At least, I hoped you’d still be. For all I knew, you’d already gotten on a train and were halfway to Haikkido by now.”

Kenma looks back down at his hands. He knows he should say something. Apologize or explain himself, but his throat has closed up, and he’s pretty sure he couldn’t say anything even if he knew what to say.

“I’m gonna be straight with you,” Kuroo says, turning toward him slightly. “You hurt me. Waking up this morning to find out you left . . . it hurt a whole fucking lot. I wondered if maybe I’d gotten things wrong. If maybe you never really felt like I did and were just using me this whole time, like Oikawa said you would.”

Kenma flinches. He knows he deserves that, but it doesn’t make it any less painful to hear.

“I just . . . I’ve been honest with you this whole time, Kenma. I have feelings for you. I care about you. I want us to work. I just . . . can you just tell me something? This thing . . .” he gestures between them, “this thing between us; did I just imagine it? Or is it real?”

Kenma bites his lip hard, his chest shuddering. “It’s real,” he manages to force out, barely above a whisper.

Kuroo inhales shakily. “Okay,” he says. “Then you have to be honest with me. You have to trust me. This can’t be a one-way street. I’ve been patient, and if you can’t tell me everything, that’s fine. But you need to give me _something_ , Kenma. And you can’t keep running away. At least, not without me.”

Kenma glances sidelong at him. Kuroo’s looking at him now, smiling sadly. It’s clear now that he’s been crying, and Kenma feels worse than before.

“I meant it when I said I was here for you,” Kuroo says, reaching over slowly to brush some of Kenma’s hair behind his ear, in order to see his face. “I’m not going anywhere unless you tell me to get lost.”

He braces himself, as though waiting for Kenma to do just that, but Kenma just ducks his head again, the weight on his chest growing heavier, the pain within him burning sharper, and he feels prickles of heat in the corners of his eyes, as his vision blurs. He hunches lower over his knees, gasping for breath, as he tries to rein in the tears. Breaking down in public is humiliating, and he wishes, not for the first time, that he could disappear.

“Hey,” Kuroo says softly. “Come here.”

He wraps his arms around Kenma, turning him so his face is buried in Kuroo’s chest, hidden from the world around them. He’s warm and smells familiar, with scents Kenma’s come to associate with the words “home” and “safe.”

He allows the tears to come, then, and he sobs into Kuroo’s chest, aching with guilt and shame and a longing for something he doesn’t feel he deserves. Kuroo continues to hold him firmly, rubbing his back with one hand, stroking the back of his head with his other. Kenma realizes that he’s never allowed himself to stop and let go of everything he’s felt since that night he first ran away into the rain. He shudders with the force of his cries, though he manages to keep quiet, barely making a sound against the front of Kuroo’s shirt.

“It’s okay,” Kuroo murmurs. “You’re okay.”

Kenma isn’t sure how long they sit there. Eventually, though, his back starts to ache from his hunched position, and he pulls back, wiping at his face and sniffling. Kuroo cups his face gently with both hands, leaning forward to press a small kiss against his forehead.

“Let’s go somewhere we can talk, hm?” he suggests softly.

Kenma nods, exhaustion settling into his bones. He forces himself to stand, though, and grabs his knapsack. Kuroo takes it from him, slinging it over his shoulder, before taking Kenma’s hand and holding it firmly.

He leads him out of the station and toward a small café on the corner of one street. Kenma remains silent, as Kuroo goes to the counter and orders two hot chocolates. Once they have their drinks, he takes Kenma to a table in the back of the building. They’ve missed the early morning rush, so the café is rather empty, but Kenma appreciates the dark solitude of the corner table.

Kuroo hands him a stack of napkins, and Kenma uses a couple to clean his face more thoroughly. He takes the steaming mug in both hands, then, and heaves a deep sigh. Some of the weight on his chest has lessened, he realizes, and he can breathe a bit easier.

Kuroo doesn’t speak first, simply sips his hot chocolate and waits.

Kenma stares down at the melting whipped cream in his mug. “Yamamoto Taketora . . . was the first person I ever liked.” He inhales slowly, realizing, though, that saying Tora’s name aloud isn’t as painful as he thought it’d be. He exhales, bringing his mug up to take a small sip. The liquid is hot, but not too hot, and he takes a longer sip than he first intended to, steadying himself. Kuroo waits.

“My parents . . . they worked all the time. They loved me, I know they did, but they were never around. I don’t mind being alone but . . . I was lonely. And I didn’t . . . get along with the kids in my class very well. They were all so loud and energetic, and I wasn’t. I didn’t know how to relate to them. So I didn’t have any friends.”

Kenma can’t help but wonder, as he speaks, what his childhood would’ve been like if Kuroo had grown up with him. Would he have been as lonely? As isolated?

“My parents got worried when I entered middle school. They told me I had to join a club or they’d take away my video games. They wanted me to try harder, I guess. I joined volleyball because they were looking for people, and this kid . . . Fukunaga Shouhei . . . he gave me a flyer, and he was quiet, too. I figured I’d just stick with him.”

Kenma wrinkles his nose, remembering the first few weeks of volleyball practice. “I hated it,” he admits. “The upperclassmen were mean and always shoved off their chores onto us first years. I didn’t want to play with them, but Tora . . . he said we should stick it out because the third years wouldn’t be around forever. I didn’t get along very well with Tora, at first. He was loud and always talking about showing his guts, which made him a sloppy player. He just wanted to show off.”

Kenma can’t help but smile faintly, remembering the fights they used to get into, with Fukunaga stepping in with his bucket of water to break them up.

“Sounds like Lev,” Kuroo interjects finally with an amused half-grin. “When he first joined our team, all he wanted to do was show off his spiking skills, and he wasn’t even that great at those either.”

“Tora was good, but he thought too much about glory and not enough about his technique,” Kenma says, sitting up a little straighter. “Eventually we proved ourselves to each other and started to get along. He invited me over to his house one day after practice, and his parents were so . . . different than mine. They were affectionate and laughed a lot. They really seemed to care about Tora and . . . and Akane.” Kenma stops, the name catching in his throat.

Kuroo watches him, expression open. “Akane?” he prompts gently, when Kenma struggles to continue.

Kenma nods, swallowing hard and taking another sip. He already feels tired from talking so much, and he doesn’t want to keep going, especially since he knows he’ll eventually get to that night. But Kuroo deserves to know the truth. Whatever happens afterwards . . .

He looks up at Kuroo. He came after him. Tora didn’t, but Kuroo did. He really seems to want him. Maybe . . . maybe the truth won’t drive him away.

“Akane was Tora’s little sister,” Kenma says, lowering his gaze to his mug. “She . . . she called me Big Brother almost immediately. It was weird. But I . . . kinda liked it. I started going over to their house every day after practice. I didn’t want to go home to an empty house, anymore. Sometimes Fukunaga would come over too, but mostly it was just me and Tora and Akane.”

Kenma closes his eyes, remembering the sleepovers, the wrestling matches, the movie marathons. He remembers sitting close to Tora, as he taught him how to play Mario Kart, knees touching. He remembers Tora taking his hand and dragging him through the woods behind his house to play Pokémon master. He remembers how his feelings started to grow, small and confusing at first, but then sharper and hotter until he started to dream of Tora in embarrassing ways, his changing body betraying him more than one night a week. He remembers wondering if it was okay to like another boy like this, and then deciding that he didn’t care.

“I was sixteen,” he says softly. “We just won a match that would take us to Nationals.” He grimaces, realizing then just how much he screwed everyone over. Not only had he abandoned his best friend, he abandoned his team, too. “He kissed my cheek. It was a victory thing. He was caught up in the moment. But I started overthinking it. I thought maybe . . . he felt the same for me that I did for him.”

Kenma grimaces, wrinkling his nose. This is the most difficult part. “I-I kissed him, that night. It wasn’t planned. It was my first kiss. He jerked away from me, and he-he looked so confused and shocked, and I was sure he would hate me for it so I-I ran off. I didn’t . . . I didn’t know Akane followed me. I ran to the park. I just wanted to get away. I was embarrassed and angry. Akane tried to get to me, but when she crossed the street . . .”

Kenma curls his hands around his mug, gripping it tighter. He doesn’t want to say it. He doesn’t want to relive it.

He feels a warm hand wrap around his wrist, giving it a firm squeeze. Kenma struggles to breathe normally.

“It was raining a lot. This car . . . the driver didn’t see her. It h-hit . . . it hit her . . . and I just stood there. I saw it happen, and I just _stood_ there.”

“Kenma,” Kuroo says gently, “you were in shock.”

“I _know_ ,” Kenma snaps, squeezing his eyes shut, as he trembles. He sees it in his head, now, the flashing lights of the ambulance, the rain falling in thick sheets of water, thunder rolling overhead.

“Kenma . . .”

“I ran. I ran, and I didn’t stop until I was sure no one was following me. I couldn’t go home. Everyone would’ve known what I’d done. Tora would’ve hated me. _I_ hated me. So I just . . . kept running.”

Kenma sighs, slumping forward to press his forehead against the tabletop. He’s done talking. He’s probably talked more tonight than he has his entire life. He’s not sure how he feels about it. His chest aches, but at the same time, finally getting it all out . . . he feels relief, too.

“Kenma,” Kuroo says again. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Kenma doesn’t lift his head. Logically, he knows this. He wasn’t driving the car. He didn’t tell Akane to run across the street like that. But the fact remains he’s still indirectly responsible. If he hadn’t run off in the first place . . . if he hadn’t kissed Tora . . .

“Kenma, look at me.”

Kenma slowly sits back. When he manages to meet Kuroo’s gaze, he sees only sympathy and affection in the other man’s eyes. It causes his chest to squeeze around his heart; his stomach flips over itself.

_That’s not right. He shouldn’t be looking at me like that._

“It wasn’t your fault,” Kuroo says again, firmly. He pulls Kenma’s hand away from his mug, lacing his fingers through his and gripping them tightly. “You made a mistake when you ran away, sure. But you were just a kid. You were scared and hurting and you thought the only place you felt safe was no longer safe. But Kenma, it’s been five years since then. And when I saw Tora yesterday . . . he didn’t seem angry. He looked . . . surprised, but also . . . relieved, I think. He wanted to go after you, but he had Akane with him.”

Kenma stiffens, his eyes widening, as his heart starts to pound faster. “Akane was with him?”

Kuroo nods, smiling crookedly. “Yeah. She was fine. If she was injured from the accident, she didn’t look like it.”

Kenma sits back, his mind whirring. After he ran away, he looked up that night in the news as often as he could but found nothing. He assumed it was because someone deemed it not newsworthy. He thought it would’ve been covered if she’d died, at least, and comforted himself with the fact that she _probably_ hadn’t died, but even then he could never be really sure.

“You need to talk to him, Kenma,” Kuroo says, then, stroking his thumb against the back of Kenma’s hand. “It’s good that you told me all this, but this all started with Tora. You have to end it with him too if you’re going to have closure.” He bites his lip. “Like me and Bokuto, you know? I guess, comparatively, I had an easier time of it, but . . . you need to talk to Tora.”

Kenma makes a face. He knows Kuroo’s right, but the thought of sitting down face to face with Tora, after all this time . . . he feels nauseous.

“I’ll stay with you,” Kuroo offers. “If that’ll help.”

Kenma stares back at him, wondering how in the world he’d gotten so lucky as to meet someone like Kuroo. He doesn’t deserve him at all, and yet here he is, offering himself to Kenma over and over again, despite the pain Kenma’s caused him.

_Does he . . ._

He pushes the question away, not ready mentally, emotionally, or physically to deal with the answer right now. He slumps in his seat, staring down at the mug of hot chocolate and feeling the exhaustion creeping further into him. He woke too early in order to sneak out of the apartment, and with everything that just happened and the emotional toll it took on him, he just wants to sleep for hours.

“You don’t have to decide right now,” Kuroo says, quietly.

Kenma nods, grateful for that.

“Do you want to go home?” Kuroo asks, then, tentatively.

Kenma nods again. Relief spreads over Kuroo’s expression, and he stands. Kenma drags himself to his feet as well, stumbling slightly. Kuroo hooks the knapsack over Kenma’s shoulder, before turning and crouching, offering his back to Kenma. It takes Kenma a moment to realize what he’s offering. His face grows warm, as he shyly wraps his arms around Kuroo’s neck and hoists himself up onto his back. Kuroo’s hands grip his thighs, as Kenma wraps his legs around Kuroo’s waist.

Kuroo makes his way out of the café, and Kenma lowers his head against Kuroo’s shoulder. It’s a little uncomfortable on his back, but it’s better than walking. He closes his eyes.

When he opens them again, they’re back at Kuroo’s apartment. Kuroo lowers him to his feet just inside the door, turning to close it and kick off his shoes. Kenma does the same, more slowly. It feels a little surreal to be back here, when he’d been so sure he’d never see it again. Kuroo takes up his hand again, yawning slightly, and leads him toward the bedroom.

Kenma bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from insisting he take the couch instead. After what he did, should he really be allowed back in here? But he wants to be, so he says nothing and squashes the guilt inside him. He pulls off his clothes, stripping down to his boxer-briefs, before getting into the bed. Kuroo does the same.

Once they’re both lying down, Kuroo wraps his arm around Kenma’s waist and tugs him closer until his back is flush with Kuroo’s chest. Kuroo nuzzles his nose into Kenma’s hair, breathing a quiet sigh.

“I was so afraid I would never get to hold you again,” he admits softly.

Kenma swallows hard. “I’m sorry,” he forces out with a grimace.

“Please don’t run away from me again . . .”

“I won’t.”

Kenma wonders if his word really means that much, anymore, but Kuroo appears content, and he snuggles deeper into Kenma. Despite the anxiety still twisting in his chest, Kenma finds himself falling asleep fairly quickly once he realizes that this is real. He’s really back in Kuroo’s apartment, in his arms. Kuroo _wants_ him here. Even after everything he told him.

Kenma still doesn’t feel worthy, but he decides to stop questioning it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kenma feels like throwing up. He somehow remembered Tora’s old phone number, and when he texted it, somehow it was still working. After testing that, he asked Tora to meet him at the Sunshine Café at 17:00, as he got off work around that time. He then turned off his phone before he could see the reply.

Now he stands behind the counter with Kuroo, watching the door. He’s completely shredded three napkins, and he can feel the tension thrumming through him like electricity. He nearly jumps out of his skin when Kuroo places his hands on his shoulders.

“Relax,” he says softly, kneading his thumbs in circular motions over his tense muscles. “It’ll be okay.”

“Easy for you to say,” Kenma mutters, though he has to admit Kuroo’s hands feel nice. He closes his eyes, taking a couple deep breaths to try to calm his rapidly beating heart.

Kuroo kisses the side of his neck gently, his lips soft and warm. “I’ll be right here the whole time,” he promises. “If you need me to intervene, just let me know.”

“Oi, I don’t pay you to stand around being gross!” Yaku shouts from the back where he’s doing inventory.

“Cool your jets, there’s, like, nobody here!” Kuroo calls back, his hands still massaging Kenma’s shoulders.

Just as he says that, though, the front door opens. Kenma’s breath catches in his throat, and he stiffens, as Yamamoto Taketora enters the café. He looks the same as he did five years ago, if older and a little broader. The lines of his face have hardened; no longer round with baby fat. His jaw is sharp and angular, and although his hair is still styled in that ridiculous faux-hawk with the dyed center, it suits him somehow, giving him a rougher appearance. He looks tough: wearing a black leather jacket over a white t-shirt, ripped jeans with chains hanging from them, and black boots.

 _He’s fully given in to his delinquent style, then._ Kenma wonders if he works somewhere that lets him dress like that, or if he’s unemployed.

The second Tora meets Kenma’s gaze across the café, however, his entire demeanor changes. His eyes widen, and he looks torn between tears of relief or tears of . . . something else. Kenma realizes he can’t really read him anymore.

Kuroo’s hands fall from his shoulders, as Tora approaches the counter. He looks Tora up and down slowly, sizing him up. When Tora gets close enough to realize that’s what he’s doing, he stops short and does the same.

“You wanna go, punk?” he asks, jutting his chin out.

It’s so reminiscent of when they were kids, that Kenma can’t help but stifle an incredulous laugh. After five years, he still really hasn’t changed, at all.

“Tora,” he says softly.

Tora whips his gaze around to look at Kenma, and once more his expression softens. “Kenma . . . it really is you.”

Kuroo places his hand on the small of Kenma’s back. “I’ll be right here,” he says again, kissing the side of his head, before giving him a small push toward the employee only entrance to their area.

Kenma inhales shakily, but now that he’s faced with the ghost of his past, and that ghost isn’t trying to kill him, he feels a bit more confident.

He still has to resist the urge to run away, though.

Tora’s gaze follows him, as he comes out from behind the counter. Kenma gestures toward a table in the back.

“We need to talk,” he says.

“I-I—” Tora steps forward and then stops. He swallows hard before throwing his arms out to the side. “Can I hug you?”

Kenma starts in surprise. “You . . . want to?”

“Kenma!” Tora rushes forward, grabbing Kenma by his biceps. “I’ve been so worried about you! After the accident, I waited for you to come home, but you never showed up. I thought it was my fault.” He lets go of Kenma, rubbing the back of his neck. “I guess I, uh, I took the kiss pretty badly. You just surprised me, that’s all. I didn’t want you to leave . . .”

Kenma bites his lip, fidgeting with the edge of his apron. “I thought . . . the accident . . . it was my fault.”

“Hah?!” Tora rears back, incredulous. “What the fuck are you talking about?! It was that damn drunk driver’s fault! We made him pay, too. Got Akane all the help she needed to recover. She’s totally better now! And she kept asking for you, too, kept asking if you were okay. She really missed you, man!” He stops then, shuffling his feet sheepishly.

“I missed you, too,” he admits. He runs a hand over his head. “Damn, Kenma, you were like a brother to me. I loved you.”

Kenma turns his gaze to the floor, guilt returning and twisting his insides harder than before.

“But, hey,” Tora says, gentler this time. “It’s good to see you, man. I’m glad you’re okay.”

Kenma closes his eyes, trying to steady himself. Bracing himself, he steps forward and presses his face against Tora’s shoulder. Tora stiffens, but then he quickly recovers, wrapping his arms around Kenma in a crushing embrace. Kenma can feel himself trembling, but this time he manages to hold in the tears. Tora can’t, apparently, because he feels the man’s chest heave and then tears seep into his hair.

“Dude, I’m _so_ sorry I made you feel like you hadta run away from me! I didn’t mean to! I swear I never saw you any different.”

That’s not really the thing Kenma needs to hear, but he accepts it anyway, relaxing against Tora for a moment before leaning back. He brings the side of his hand down on Tora’s head with a soft hit.

“Stop crying,” he says. “You don’t have to apologize for anything.”

“Come back with me,” Tora says, sniffling and wiping at his eyes. “Akane would love to see you! And your parents, too . . . they sent people out looking for you, you know. You always said they didn’t really care about you, but I think they did. They’d love to hear from you, man. To know you’re okay.”

Kenma chews on his lip, glancing over at Kuroo behind the counter. He’s leaning against the display case, watching everything intently. Kenma turns back to Tora, shaking his head.

“My home is here, now,” he says.

Tora follows his glance over to Kuroo. He looks back at Kenma with a skeptical look. “Are you sure? He looks kinda like a delinquent.”

Kenma stares at him before laughing outright. Tora starts in surprise before he starts laughing, as well.

Eventually they make their way to the table, and Tora fills him in on everything that’s happened in the five years they’ve been apart. Apparently he _does_ have a job. He’s a sports model. He still plays volleyball, but he wasn’t quite good enough to be chosen for the National team. He played in college and did well and caught the eye of a photographer who liked his look.

Kenma doesn’t reveal much about his time. He directs Tora’s questions back to him and finds out that Akane is in high school and wants to get into art. Fukunaga has his own company where he puts all sorts of weird and witty sayings onto t-shirts. Tora’s parents are still working, as are Kenma’s parents, having eventually given him up for dead.

Kenma’s stomach twists at this news. He stares down at the mug of coffee Kuroo brought over for him, not sure what he’d say to his parents if he saw them again. They’d always been practically strangers to Kenma, and he feels bad that he has no interest in reconnecting with them. The Yamamotos were more like a family to him, and he does tell Tora to let his folks know that Kenma says hello and that he’s grateful for their hospitality all those years ago.

After a couple hours of catching up, Tora admits he has to start heading home if he’s going to make it by dinner. He still lives with his parents, saving up in order to help Akane get into art school. Kenma’s reluctant to say goodbye, but at the same time the encounter has taken an emotional toll on him. So he stands without protest and lets Tora hug him goodbye.

“I’ll bring Akane by to see you one day!” Tora exclaims. “It’ll be just like old times!”

Kenma can’t help but feel warm inside, at the thought. “Okay,” he says.

Tora turns to Kuroo, pointing at him. “You better treat him right,” he says. “Or I won’t be back with just my little sister.”

Kuroo raises an eyebrow, looking amused. “You’re a model, right?”

Kenma stifles a laugh in a cough. Tora narrows his eyes, still pointing, before he turns and leaves the café. Kuroo turns to look down at Kenma. “You had a crush on _him_? And here I was kind of worried you might leave me if you met up with him.”

Kenma rolls his eyes, but he can’t really defend Tora. The young man _is_ pretty ridiculous. Still, he feels better for having seen him. To know that Akane is okay, and that neither she nor Tora blame him for what happened, makes him think maybe he can finally move on from it himself.

Kuroo was right, he realizes. He _did_ need closure.

“Well, I’m off the clock,” Kuroo says, hopping over the counter. He takes Kenma’s hand, giving it a firm squeeze. “Let’s go home.”

Kenma nods, exhausted despite the coffee he had. He walks beside Kuroo on their way back to the apartment, and once they’re inside, he kicks off his shoes and goes to sit on the couch. Kiki hops into his lap, and Kenma picks her up, burying his face in her soft, warm fur. After a moment, he feels the couch move, as Kuroo sits down beside him.

Kenma shifts toward him, and they maneuver so that Kuroo’s sitting with his back against the armrest, one leg stretched out on the couch, the other dangling off it. Between his legs, Kenma sits with his back against Kuroo’s chest, Kiki still on his lap. They sit like this in silence for a little while, Kuroo wrapping his arm around Kenma’s chest to hold him, Kenma closing his eyes to feel Kuroo’s heartbeat against his back.

“This . . . might be too soon to ask,” Kuroo says after a moment, his breath ruffling Kenma’s hair.

Kenma tilts his head back against Kuroo’s chest to look up at him. Kuroo looks down at him with a wry grin.

“Will you go out with me?” he asks.

Kenma reaches up to flick his nose. “Don’t be stupid,” he says.

Kuroo wrinkles his nose. “How am I being stupid?!”

“We’re already going out,” Kenma says, lowering his head and settling back against him.

“Since when?!”

“Since the festival. That was our first date, remember?”

Kuroo falls silent. “Oh wow, I guess so.” He hums for a moment. “I must have _awesome_ game if I got you to sleep with me on the first date.”

Kenma stands abruptly, setting Kiki on the floor. “You ruined it,” he says, making his way to the bedroom to change into his pajamas.

“Hey, wait!”

Kuroo scrambles off the couch to follow, and Kenma fights a smirk. Kuroo catches up with him in the bedroom, grabbing his arm to turn him toward him.

“I was joking,” he says apologetically.

Kenma rolls his eyes. “I know,” he says, leaning up to give Kuroo a small kiss on the cheek.

Kuroo blinks in surprise before grinning faintly. “Oh, right, I forgot that you’re a brat when you’re in your true form.”

Kenma turns away, stripping out of his clothes without bothering to tell Kuroo to leave. He hears Kuroo choke on his spit, as he kicks his underwear to the side and bends over his knapsack to retrieve a clean pair.

“You’re . . . definitely a brat,” Kuroo says, sounding a bit dazed.

Kenma pulls on the boxer-briefs and glances over his shoulder to find Kuroo staring at his backside, cheeks pink. “Are you complaining?”

Kuroo’s gaze darts up quickly, and he grins slowly in a way that would be creepy if Kenma didn’t already know how much of a dork Kuroo was. “Absolutely not.”

Kenma tugs on one of Kuroo’s shirts that he wears to sleep, before moving past him to reclaim the couch. He’s settled down and is flipping through Netflix, when Kuroo emerges, wearing only a pair of pajama pants. They ride low on his hips, and Kenma wonders if Kuroo’s really one to call _him_ a brat.

He tears his gaze away from Kuroo’s torso (more specifically, the two lines of his hipbones that disappear into the hem of his pants) and focuses on the TV screen in front of him. Kuroo settles beside him, wrapping his arm around Kenma’s shoulders. Kenma snuggles against him almost immediately, and Kuroo nuzzles the side of his head with his nose.

“I’ll order dinner in a bit, if you want,” he says.

“Okay.”

“I’m really glad you came back.”

Kenma bites his lip. “Me too,” he admits.

Kuroo reaches up with his free hand to take Kenma’s chin. He turns his face toward his. They’re inches apart, and Kenma feels his heart beat faster, as he pulls his gaze from Kuroo’s lips to meet his gaze.

“Can I say something that might not be the smartest thing to say but is the complete truth?” Kuroo asks hesitantly, his eyes searching Kenma’s face.

Kenma nods slightly, getting a feeling he already knows what Kuroo is going to say.

“I love you,” Kuroo says, releasing Kenma’s chin and leaning back slightly, almost defensively, like he’s afraid Kenma will scoff at him.

Scoffing is the last thing on Kenma’s mind. He has a fairly good idea of what Kuroo means when he says that, how he means it. It’s deeper than just love between friends, and he gets the feeling it might be deeper than simple infatuation. No, Kuroo means this with the core of his being, and the weight of that hits Kenma like a bullet train. His heart pounds loudly in his ears, and his chest aches.

He’s not sure what to say. With everything that’s happened the past two days, Kenma knows that he does love Kuroo, but he hasn’t taken a moment to really stop and consider how deep that love goes, how intensely he feels it. He doesn’t want to say it back if he can’t assure Kuroo that he feels the same as he does.

But he has to do something, and he doesn’t want Kuroo think he _doesn’t_ love him, either.

So he reaches behind Kuroo’s head to take hold of it and pulls him close again. Kuroo inhales sharply, as their lips meet. Kuroo kisses him back slowly, with warmth and patience and affection, and Kenma’s chest just aches all the more.

He shifts his body into Kuroo’s, setting his knee across Kuroo’s thighs, as he presses closer. He moves his lips with Kuroo’s, with all the longing and affection he feels himself, and he can feel the way they melt into each other, how their lips meld and part only to find one another again.

Kenma loses track of time, but it feels like quite a while before they finally break apart. Kuroo sets his forehead against Kenma’s, and for a moment they simply pant into each other’s mouths.

“I take it . . . my confession is okay, then,” Kuroo says, grinning breathlessly.

Kenma nods. It was more than okay.

And he’s going to figure out his own feelings as soon as possible, so he can give Kuroo the answer he deserves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://shions-heart.tumblr.com/


	9. My Promise to You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, Kenma!!!
> 
> (sorry for the angst, ahaha)

The venue is packed from runway to wall. Kuroo has to squint through the flashing lights of the cameras around him to pick out Bokuto, Oikawa, and Iwaizumi in the crowd. He scans the seats near the bright white runway, knowing Oikawa told him he scored them tickets at the front.

Kenma tugs on his sleeve until Kuroo leans down toward him. Not only is it packed, but it's also loud, with music blaring and people talking. Kenma's lips brush against Kuroo's ear as he practically shouts, "IS THAT THEM?"

Kuroo follows his pointing finger to a trio of young man on the opposite side of the runway than them. He shields his eyes with his hand against the glare of the lights above reflecting on the shiny . . . whatever the heck runways are made out of. Finally, he spots them, and when he does he wonders how he ever missed them in the first place.

Bokuto's wearing an obnoxiously bright purple suit with his hair slicked back, Oikawa's wearing a spotless white suit with the collar of his shirt open, and Iwaizumi's wearing black slacks and a black suit jacket over . . . a Godzilla t-shirt?

Oikawa catches sight of them and waves his hand over his head. "YOOHOO! TETSUN!"

Kuroo glances down at himself and Kenma. When they first received Akaashi's invitation to attend the show he'd be modeling in, in the Tokyo Fashion Week in October, Oikawa informed them that they had to dress nice. So he and Kenma had taken steps to do so. Before leaving the house, Kuroo thought they looked sharp. Kenma's ensemble is composed of khaki slacks and a burgundy sweater over a white button-down. Kuroo's wearing his best black jeans, a bright red button-down, and a shiny black faux-leather jacket. Suddenly, though, he feels underdressed.

"Should've sprung for the suits," he mutters under his breath, even as he grabs Kenma's hand and pulls him around the runaway to meet the three.

Oikawa grabs them both in brief hugs, pulling away with a grin. "This is it! All my hard work is paying off!"

Kuroo raises an eyebrow. "Did I miss something? Are you the model going on stage tonight?"

Oikawa sticks out his tongue. "You see all the press that's here? That's thanks to _me_ and my fabulous publicity skills."

"Doesn't the press always cover fashion weeks?" Kenma asks, sitting down beside Iwaizumi.

Oikawa throws up his hands. "Nobody appreciates my genius!"

"I'm sure you'll live." Kuroo pats Oikawa on the shoulder and takes his place beside Kenma.

Oikawa sits on the other side of Iwaizumi with a huff. Bokuto leans forward to look down the line at Kuroo, giving him a grin.

"You gotta cheer extra loud for Akaashi, okay?"

"That's why we're here," Kuroo says, giving him a thumbs up.

Kenma stares at Iwaizumi's shirt. "Is that Godzilla?"

"Don't get me started!" Oikawa exclaims. "Iwa-chan has so many nice shirts, and he wears the one with a fucking kaijuu on it!"

Iwaizumi smooths down his shirt with a proud smile. "I like it," he says.

Kuroo can't help but notice how much more comfortable Iwaizumi looks in this outfit, as opposed to the stiffly ironed suits he used to wear. He reaches across Kenma to offer Iwaizumi his fist to bump.

"Keeping it real, brother," he says sagely.

Iwaizumi taps his fist against Kuroo's with a solemn nod. Kenma purses his lips, fighting a smile no doubt. Oikawa heaves a giant sigh.

"At least I don't have to worry about any of you all upstaging me," he says primly, lightly touching his perfectly coiffed hair.

"Akaashi's the best-looking of _all_ of us," Bokuto says loyally.

Kenma nods. "True."

Kuroo turns to him, affronted. "Excuse me?"

Kenma blinks at him, as Oikawa bursts out laughing, and even Iwaizumi chuckles. Kuroo pouts, not entirely sure what to make of Kenma finding Akaashi better looking than him. For a brief moment, a pang of familiar jealousy twinges in his chest, as his mind jumps to the conclusion that Kenma might leave him for Akaashi too, if given the chance.

But then Kenma grabs his hand and gives it a firm squeeze. "Don't be stupid," he tells him softly, almost as though he'd read his mind.

Kuroo smirks. "But you _do_ think I'm good-looking, right?" he asks hopefully.

"Oh look, it's starting," Kenma says, deflecting.

" _Kenmaaaaa._ "

The lights grow dim, and the music fades as a spotlight shines on the end of the runway. A slender, well-dressed young man steps out from the wings into the center of the spotlight. His hair is silvery gray with black tips, and as he bows to the crowd, a group of young men from across the room stand to their feet, cheering and hollering. The designer on stage flushes faintly, gesturing for the group to calm down, before he addresses the crowd.

"Hello, my name is Semi Eita. Thank you for attending my show. This first collection is called 'Power.' I hope it inspires you."

He bows again before stepping off the stage. The lights fill the runway, then, and music with a slow yet forceful beat starts to play. One by one the models emerge, strutting down the runaway to pose at the end before walking back. Kuroo knows next to nothing about fashion, but he can tell a lot of thought went into these outfits. There are bold colors and sharp angles, and each model has on dark, dramatic makeup. There are male and female models, and a few that don't seem to have a particular gender. But each walks as though they own the runaway, eyes flashing, stances confident, and Kuroo thinks he can actually feel the power the designer intended for him to feel.

_This truly is an art form._

When Akaashi walks onto the runway, Bokuto whistles with his fingers, shouting Akaashi's name over the sound of the music. Kuroo isn't sure at first if Akaashi heard him, as his expression remains stoic, but as he turns and walks back toward the wings and passes them, Kuroo notices a faint flush coloring his cheeks.

He truly is stunning, and Kuroo bites his lip, glancing sidelong at Kenma beside him. The young man's eyes follow Akaashi as he leaves, before turning to the next model that passes. His expression as inscrutable as always, and Kuroo has no idea what he's thinking.

 _This is stupid,_ Kuroo scolds himself. _So what if he doesn't think you're as attractive as Akaashi? Most people don't. He's still dating me. He still likes me better._

Still, the logic can't quite overcome the uneasy feelings of doubt, and he does his best to push them aside.

It doesn’t quite work. For the next hour and a half, he watches model after model cross the stage, every fifteen minutes or so changing into a new collection, which Semi Eita announces. All he can focus on is Akaashi each time he comes around, noticing each time just how beautiful the man truly is. It’s nearly unnatural. What the hell? How can one person be that aesthetically pleasing? It might just be all the makeup and the lights playing tricks, since Kuroo is pretty sure he’d never seen Akaashi look _that_ good before . . . then again, maybe this whole time he’s just been blinded by his jealousy.

_Am I doomed to always lose to Akaashi?_

He doesn’t realize he’s chewing his lip into a bloody mess until he tastes the tang of iron and feels Kenma nudge his arm.

Kuroo quickly licks his split lip and looks down at Kenma. The young man simply raises an eyebrow in a silent question: you okay?

Kuroo nods, forcing a smile. He knows this knot of anxiety is stupid. Kenma chose him. He . . . well, he hasn’t said the L word _yet_ , but Kuroo’s fairly certain he feels it, if nothing else. Probably. Maybe.

_He’s still here, isn’t he? He didn’t get on that train. He came back with you. He’s still living with you. Stop being so paranoid._

Kuroo reaches for Kenma’s hand, lacing his fingers through Kenma’s slender ones and holding on firmly. He really hopes there’s alcohol at the after party.

The party is held in the penthouse suite of a hotel a mere block from the fashion show venue. Once the show is over, Oikawa gathers them together to wait for Akaashi. Because of his connections, he got them all special passes to attend, and he informs them that he expects thanks and lavish praise for his generosity.

“Let’s see how the party goes first,” Iwaizumi says, fighting a smile.

Oikawa punches his arm. “Are you doubting me, Iwa-chan?!”

“Never,” Iwaizumi says, unable to stop his smile this time.

“AKAAAAGSHI!”

Bokuto practically tackles his boyfriend in a hug, as he emerges from the crowd in street clothes. He still has some makeup on, and his casual clothes are still fairly chic. He’s wearing a black skirt over tight black leggings and a long dark gray sweater that looks incredibly soft. He has a white choker around his neck, and there are gold bangles around his wrists and hints of gold eye shadow over his black-lined eyes.

He looks fucking gorgeous, and Kuroo kind of hates him for it.

Akaashi hugs Bokuto back briefly, a flush rising to his cheeks. “Thank you all for coming,” he says when he’s free, bowing slightly.

“It was pretty awesome,” Iwaizumi says with a nod. “Not sure I understood all of it but yeah. Pretty cool.”

“You were amazing!” Bokuto exclaims, grinning proudly. “The hottest one up there for sure!”

Oikawa snickers, even as Akaashi’s flush darkens, as he gestures for Bokuto to lower his voice.

“I’m hardly the most attractive one in that group,” he says factually, shaking his head. “But I appreciate the compliment.”

Kuroo bites back the snide comment that rose to his lips. He smiles instead, and it feels tight and unnatural on his face. “You want to head out to the party now? Don’t want to miss all the o’dourves.”

“The what?” Bokuto asks blankly.

“He’s right,” Oikawa says. “We gotta start networking, Iwa-chan! Maybe we can get you a job opportunity tonight! Though . . . are you _sure—_ ”

“I’m keeping the shirt.”

“Fine, fine.”

As the group makes their way outside, Kenma lingers back. Kuroo shortens his stride to fall into step with him.

“You okay?” Kuroo asks, remembering how Kenma fared at the last party he took him to. He can’t help but hope Kenma admits he wants to go home.

“Yeah,” Kenma says instead, eyes on the back of the four in front of them.

“Cool.” Kuroo slips his hands into his pockets. The night air is chilly, as they’re already well into the fall. He wonders absently if they’ll get snow this winter.

“Are _you_ okay?”

Kenma’s question catches him by surprise. He widens his eyes.

“Of course.”

Kenma squints. “Your lip is bleeding.”

Kuroo reaches up to touch it with a grimace. “Ah, yeah. It does that sometimes.”

Kenma sighs. “Is it because of what I said?”

Kuroo stiffens. “What?”

They’ve reached the hotel and the others step into the lobby, but Kenma lingers outside the revolving doors, forcing Kuroo to pause beside him. He wrinkles his nose, his brows furrowed in thought.

“I don’t . . . not find you attractive.”

“Okay . . .” Not as reassuring as Kuroo hoped.

“It’s just . . . he’s just . . .” Kenma’s scowl deepens, as he grows frustrated. “People have types, don’t they?”

Kuroo’s chest squeezes tightly around his lungs. “So I’m not your type.”

If looks could kill, Kuroo’s pretty sure he’d be a dead man, but he can’t really find himself to care at the moment.

“That’s _not_ what I—”

“I get it, okay? Akaashi’s your type. He’s everyone’s type, apparently. He’s so fucking hot everyone can’t help but fall for him.”

“It’s _not_ —”

“We’re getting left behind,” Kuroo says, looking over Kenma’s shoulder at the group inside heading for the elevator. He moves past Kenma, feeling bad for brushing him off, but pretty sure nothing he can say will fix his wounded pride, right now. He needs alcohol, or something.

The penthouse suite is full of people and dancing lights on the ceiling. There’s a DJ booth in one corner, and a bar in another. There are people milling about, standing in groups, talking over champagne and beer and wine, and waiters and waitresses in tuxedos move through the crowd expertly, navigating like it’s little effort to bring people platters of tasty (and expensive) looking finger-foods.

A pair of sliding glass doors leads onto a balcony, and it’s open, with people standing at the railing and chatting. Oikawa and Iwaizumi are speaking to two men in suits that look like CEOs of some kind, and upon further inspection of the room, Kuroo spots Bokuto and Akaashi making out in a secluded corner.

“Kuro—” Kenma catches his sleeve, panting softly.

“I’m getting a drink, you want anything?” Kuroo speaks over him, raising his voice like he’s trying to be heard over the music.

Kenma frowns, but Kuroo keeps walking toward the bar. Kenma follows him resolutely.

“You’re being immature,” he says.

“Oh really? I didn’t notice.” Kuroo leans across the bar, trying to catch the bartender’s attention. He orders some sake, needing something strong in his system.

“Will you just _listen_ to me? You’re overreacting.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine. My boyfriend is more attracted to my ex’s boyfriend. For whom he left me. Though I guess he wasn’t really my ex, just someone who liked fucking around.” Bitterness spills into his voice before he can stop it, and Kuroo grimaces inwardly.

_I was supposed to be over this. We talked everything out. Why am I still feeling like this?_

Kenma’s expression softens slightly. “I’m not going to leave you for him.”

“Of course not. You can’t. He’s with Kou already.”

Immediately the annoyance is back. “Will you shut up and let me talk?”

“I don’t feel like talking.” Kuroo grabs the sake and pours himself a shot, tossing it back quickly before pouring himself another one.

“Is this because I haven’t said ‘I love you’?” Kenma asks, raising his arms helplessly to the side.

Kuroo’s stomach feels like someone’s just punched it while holding a brick and wearing a metal gauntlet. He didn’t want to bring this up. He knows Kenma needs time, and he’s willing to give him that time. Yes, it hurts when he says it, and Kenma remains silent, but he’s confident that he’ll say it when he’s ready. Probably. Maybe.

He guesses it must bother him more than he thought it did.

“You know what? Forget it. Just forget I said anything,” Kuroo says, pouring the last of the sake and downing it. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Kenma steps closer. “Kuro—”

“I’m fine,” Kuroo lies quickly, pushing himself off the bar. “I’m fine. I’m just gonna go, you know, mingle or something.”

He makes his way through the crowd, hating himself more with every step. He knows he’s being an insecure little asshole, and he feels terrible about it, but he also doesn’t know what else to do.

_I’ll just walk a few laps around the place to calm down, and then I’ll be fine._

The suite suddenly feels a lot smaller than it did when he first entered. There are people _everywhere_. The room spins slightly, as he staggers through the crowd, muttering apologies and excusing himself, as he bumps into elbows and shoulders. He finally finds a wall that’s empty, and he leans against it, taking a few deep breaths. The alcohol has hit him now; he feels warm, much too warm. He pulls off his jacket, draping it over his arm, and unbuttons a couple more buttons of his shirt.

“Easy there, tiger, I’m still working on my first.”

A soft laugh huffs near his ear, and Kuroo leans away slightly, as he turns to look at the man beside him. His eyes narrow. “Daishou Suguru? You son of a bitch, is that _you_?”

Daishou grins that slithery grin that always made Kuroo want to punch him in high school.

“In the flesh.”

“What are you doing here?” This doesn’t make any sense to his tipsy brain. Daishou belongs in high school, on the other side of a volleyball net, not standing in front of him wearing a shimmery green suit that fits him way too nicely.

“My ex invited me. Sort of. Well, she posted about it on Facebook, and I snagged a pass from a guy who owed me a favor.” Daishou doesn’t look at all sheepish. In fact, he looks downright pleased with himself.

Kuroo shakes his head. “Creepy as hell.”

“Yeah, well, I haven’t managed to find her yet,” Daishou admits, running a hand through his hair, which gleams with a greenish tint that matches his suit. Kuroo watches it, fascinated by the soft strands. It looks brown under normal light, but when it moves it has that tint. How does he do that?

“Maybe she heard you were here and bailed,” Kuroo suggests with a faint smirk.

Daishou frowns slightly. “I see you haven’t changed much since high school. Still as annoying as ever.”

Kuroo points to Daishou and then to himself. “Pot. Kettle.”

“Yeah, yeah, what are _you_ doing here?”

“Unlike you, I have actually have friends. They invited me.”

Daishou looks around the suite. “Where are they?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t see them.”

“Ugh.” Kuroo leans his head against the wall behind him, closing his eyes and swallowing hard. The fuzziness in his brain has increased, and he suddenly just wants to go lie down or find a place to sit. Moving seems like too much effort, though, so he simply slides down to the floor.

When he opens his eyes, Daishou is crouched beside him, his gaze wandering slowly over the length of Kuroo’s body in a way that makes him distinctly uncomfortable.

“Dude.”

Daishou lifts his gaze with a smirk. “You know, back in the day I used to wonder if we’d ever, you know, get out all that tension with some really great hate sex.”

“Ew.” Kuroo wrinkles his nose at the thought.

Daishou lowers himself to the ground, leaning close to Kuroo. “Don’t tell me you never thought about it.”

“I am _so_ not drunk enough to have this conversation.”

Daishou waves at someone, and a minute later, he’s placing a flute of champagne in Kuroo’s hand. Kuroo blinks down at it blankly. He smirks slowly, then.

“Are you trying to get me drunk enough to have hate sex with you?”

Daishou’s face seems to flush slightly, and he drinks his champagne in a single gulp. Kuroo shakes his head, even as he takes a drink himself.

“Weirdo. It’s not going to happen. I have a boyfriend.”

Daishou looks around. “I don’t see him,” he says pointedly.

“He’s . . . I put myself in time out.”

“Mm, let me guess? You fucked up, didn’t you?” Daishou looks almost . . . gleeful at the prospect.

“Man, you are the _worst_ ,” Kuroo complains. “Why don’t you go bother someone else?”

“Nobody else is drunk with their shirt open to their waist,” Daishou says plainly, and Kuroo feels a cold, dry palm slide over the bare skin of his chest. He shivers involuntarily. He wonders vaguely if Daishou knows he even _feels_ like a snake.

“It’s like you were begging for me to come over here,” Daishou whispers into his ear, before running his tongue along the ridge of it.

Kuroo careens away from him so fast, he nearly ends up on the floor. He stares at Daishou, blinking rapidly to try and clear his blurring vision.

“Dude, what the _fuck_? That’s _not_ cool, man.” He shakes his head, trying to push himself to stand.

He nearly tips over, and Daishou grabs his arm to keep him from falling. Kuroo yanks his arm away, banging his elbow into the wall as a result.

“Shit! Fuck!” he yelps, grabbing it with a hiss of pain.

“Hey, calm down,” Daishou says nervously. “I was just playing! I wasn’t gonna—FUCK!”

Kuroo watches, wide-eyed, as Daishou drops suddenly to his knees, grabbing the back of his leg. His head falls back, as a hand grabs his hair and yanks it, and he grimaces up into the flushed and furious face of Kenma.

“Don’t fucking touch him,” he says, his voice deceptively calm. Kuroo can see the way he’s trembling, however, and the glassiness of his eyes speaks to perhaps a couple drinks too many on his part, too.

“I wasn’t going to do anything!” Daishou whimpers. “I was just seeing if he wanted it!”

“He doesn’t. Now get the fuck out of here before I kill you,” Kenma says, releasing Daishou’s hair and taking a step back.

Daishou scrambles to his feet, grabbing the back of his head and looking between the two. “Your boyfriend’s crazy!” he says.

A small crowd has gathered around them, drawn by the noise. A young woman with long dark hair pushes her way to the front, her face drawn up in a scowl. “Daishou Suguru, what the _hell_?”

Daishou blanches, as he turns to her. “Mika?!”

“Is that Kuroo Tetsurou?” she demands, looking over at Kuroo.

Kuroo blinks back at her, pretty sure he’s never seen her before in his life. “Uh, hi?”

“You followed me to this party and then tried to get with _Kuroo Tetsurou_? You told me you were over him!”

“I think this is where we leave,” Kuroo mutters to Kenma.

Kenma grabs his sleeve and pulls him away without a word. Kuroo bites his lip, wincing as his teeth come in contact with a raw spot. _I guess he’s still angry . . ._

Kenma drags him toward the front door. Kuroo grimaces, realizing that he’s ruined the night for both of them. This was supposed to be a fun party, a celebration of Akaashi and Oikawa’s success. He really did fuck up, like Daishou said.

“Whoa, whoa, hey! Where are you going?” Oikawa asks, catching up to them by the door. “Did you see Daishou’s here? His girlfriend is giving him the verbal lashing of the century. You’re going to miss it!”

“Uh, I think I’m good,” Kuroo says with a weak smile.

Oikawa glances between them, his eyes narrowing. “What happened?”

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?” Kuroo says, as Kenma opens the door and stands waiting in the hall.

Oikawa sighs. “Okay, okay,” he says lightly, but Kuroo can see the concern in his eyes. It’s touching, but he knows he can’t stay in his current condition. Neither should Kenma, for that matter.

“Tell Akaashi and Bokuto we’re sorry for bailing on them,” he says, as he steps outside.

Oikawa snickers. “They snuck into a bedroom fifteen minutes ago; I doubt they’ll notice.”

“Great. See you.” Kuroo feels Kenma take his wrist, and he lets him pull him toward the elevators.

The ride down is tense and silent. Kuroo feels like he should apologize, but he’s not entirely sure where to start.

“I hope his girlfriend breaks up with him,” Kenma says viciously after a moment.

Kuroo blinks. “I think they’re already broken up.”

“Hmph. Good.”

Kuroo rubs the back of his neck. “Daishou’s not _that_ bad . . .”

Kenma sends him an incredulous look.

“I mean, he’s pretty bad,” Kuroo backtracks. “But he’s a little bitch, mostly. He wouldn’t have done anything to me. Probably.”

Kenma turns back around to stare at the descending numbers in front of him.

“Um, thanks for stepping in though,” Kuroo says after a moment, realizing he should say it.

“I knew guys like him,” Kenma says, shoving his hands into his pockets and hunching forward. “Before. They always thought they could get away with shit like that ‘cause they figured you were asking for it.”

Kuroo’s stomach churns uneasily. “I don’t know if he really saw it like that . . .”

“Don’t make excuses for him,” Kenma snaps.

Kuroo purses his lips. “I’m not saying what he did was right,” he says carefully. “I just think lumping him together with the guys that hurt you is a little harsh. I’ve known him since high school. He’s a little punk, but he’s harmless . . . mostly.”

Kenma doesn’t respond. He storms ahead when the elevator doors open, leaving Kuroo to sigh and follow. He catches up with him outside the hotel, reaching to grab his arm to stop him. The night air is cool, sending chills through him as the wind dries the sweat on his face and chest. He pulls his jacket back on, trying to think of the right words to say. The whole experience has sobered him up, somewhat, and he hates the fact that Kenma won’t look at him. He’s frowning off to the side, shoulders tense.

“I’m sorry,” he says helplessly. “I know I ruined tonight. First with my stupid jealousy, and then the whole thing with Daishou . . . I’m really sorry.”

Kenma sighs. “I want to go home,” he says.

Kuroo’s chest seizes in fear momentarily. “You mean . . .”

Kenma glances sidelong at him. “The apartment?”

Kuroo exhales shakily. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”

Kenma’s eyes narrow, but Kuroo just starts walking again, this time toward the train station. Kenma lingers a step behind him. The tension doesn’t ease, as they wait for the train and then board it. They sit side by side as it pulls away from the station, but they might as well have been sitting miles apart.

_Our first couples fight, and it’s a doozy._

He wishes he knew how to fix it.

By the time they get to the apartment, Kuroo’s exhausted. His entire body is tight with stress, and his elbow won’t stop throbbing. He peels off his jacket and flings it over the back of the couch, slipping out of his shoes before going to the kitchen to find something frozen. He hears Kenma feeding Kiki behind him, but when he looks up, there’s just Kiki eating from her bowl.

With a sigh, he grabs a bag of frozen vegetables and places it on his aching elbow. He stands there in the kitchen for a long moment, staring down at the floor, listening to the crunch of Kiki’s food, as she eats. It feels like an eternity before he feels a nudge against his arm and looks up to see Kenma in his sleep shirt offering him a cup of water.

“Thanks,” he says hoarsely, setting down the half-melted bag and taking it from him. He takes a long drink, not lowering the cup until it’s empty.

Kenma fidgets in front of him, eyes darting across the floor.

“I . . . know I haven’t given you a lot of reasons to trust me,” he says, his voice subdued. “But I want to be here. I want to be here with you.”

“I know,” Kuroo admits softly.

“And just because I have a type, that doesn’t mean I don’t like how you look,” Kenma adds, frowning now. “I thought you were attractive from the beginning, in a creepy sort of way.”

“Thanks,” Kuroo says drily, setting the cup down and picking up the vegetable bag once more.

“I don’t think you’re creepy _now_ ,” Kenma says, glaring up at him briefly before his gaze slides away once more. “Besides, it’s not like I’m your type either.”

Kuroo starts in surprise. “How do you figure that?”

Kenma’s shoulders hunch further. “Bokuto.”

“Oh.” Kuroo tilts his head back, staring at the ceiling. “I mean, I guess I liked the fact that he’s ripped as fuck, and his features are pretty interesting.” He lowers his head to look at Kenma. “But honestly, I prefer someone smaller than me.” He can’t help but smile faintly. “I definitely have a thing for gold eyes, though.”

Kenma flushes. “I like dark hair,” he murmurs.

Kuroo can’t help but laugh. “You dye your hair!”

“Not on _me_ ,” Kenma says. “Tora said I stood out with my dark hair, and I didn’t like that.”

Kuroo reaches out to tug gently on the ends of Kenma’s hair where it’s fallen to shield his face. “You would’ve stood out to me no matter your hair color,” he admits.

Kenma huffs softly. “And I’m not going to leave you for Akaashi. That’s just stupid anyway. He’s crazy over Bokuto.”

“Right,” Kuroo says, his smile fading. “But . . . if someone else that’s your type . . .”

Kenma levels his gaze at him. “I’m not going to leave you.”

Kuroo gives him a wry smile. “You can see where I might have doubts, though, right?”

Kenma purses his lips. “I haven’t said it because . . . because you’re just so _sincere_ when you say it. I can tell you mean it with your whole heart.”

“I do mean it like that.”

“I know. And when I say it . . . I want to mean it like that, too. But I’m still working on it, you know? I care about you, and I want to be with you, but I just . . .” Kenma scruffs at the side of his head, frustration clouding his features. “I haven’t . . . since Tora . . . and it’s not . . . I’m not good at _saying_ things, and I don’t want to say it wrong and—”

Kuroo sets down the vegetables and steps forward. He reaches for Kenma’s face, cradling the side of it, as he tilts it back, bending down to press a soft kiss against Kenma’s lips. Kenma kisses him back instantly, even as he lifts his fist to press it against Kuroo’s chest. He pushes Kuroo back after a moment.

“Stop. I’m trying to _explain—_ ”

“You don’t have to,” Kuroo assures him quietly, shaking his head. “I understand. I’m sorry if I pressured you. I want you to say it when you’re ready.”

Kenma’s fingers curl into the front of Kuroo’s shirt, gripping the material tightly. “You deserve better than me,” he mutters.

“I don’t know about that,” Kuroo says, brushing Kenma’s hair behind his ear gently. “But I want you.”

“I want you, too,” Kenma murmurs, before lifting up to kiss him again.

Kuroo wraps his arm around Kenma’s waist, pulling him close and parting his lips to deepen the kiss. Kenma relaxes into his chest, his arms wrapping around his neck, as he threads his fingers through Kuroo’s hair. Kuroo can’t help but smile as he feels them, remembering how Kenma yanked Daishou’s head back.

“I liked seeing you get your claws out over me,” he admits against Kenma’s lips.

“Shut up,” Kenma says, his face growing warm.

“Mm, make me,” Kuroo says, a delicious shiver running up his spine, as Kenma responds by pushing his tongue into his mouth.

Kuroo crouches slightly to wrap his hands around Kenma’s thighs, hoisting him up, in order to wrap Kenma’s legs around his waist and carry him toward the bedroom. He almost runs into the wall a couple of times, but he can’t bring himself to stop the kiss. They break apart only when Kuroo dumps Kenma on the bed, before he crawls over on top of him, attacking his neck with kisses.

Unfortunately, now that he’s horizontal, the dizziness returns, and his limbs start to feel heavy.

“Ugh,” he groans against Kenma’s flushed skin. “I don’t think I’m gonna make it. I feel like I’m going to pass out any second.”

“Shouldn’t have drank so much,” Kenma chides, flicking his ear.

“I know,” Kuroo sighs, rolling over onto the mattress beside Kenma. He leans over to kiss his shoulder gently. “Rain check?”

Kenma nods, stifling a yawn.

Kuroo closes his eyes, not caring that he’s still dressed. Feeling better about the whole situation allows him to relax for the first time since before the fashion show, and after only a few minutes the world grows dark, and he lets himself sleep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Wait, what?”

Kuroo stares down at Kenma incredulously, wondering if he really just said what he thought he’d said. They’re at work, hanging out at lunch with the rest of the group, and Bokuto mentioned the party he’s planning for Kuroo’s birthday in a couple days.

“It’s gonna be better than the one you threw me,” he boasts.

This led to everyone explaining to Kenma the little competition he and Bokuto have had since high school, which led to Kenma admitting that his own birthday has already passed.

In October.

“Wait, hold on, _please_ tell me it wasn’t the same day as the fashion show,” Kuroo says, grimacing as he remembers the disaster that night had been. It ended well enough, but he can feel the guilt already building if that had actually been Kenma’s birthday.

Kenma shakes his head. “It was the day after,” he admits. “The sixteenth.”

Kuroo breathes a soft sigh of relief. That wasn’t so bad. That day had involved a lot of snuggling and eating ice cream in front of the TV as they nursed their hangovers. But, still . . .

“You should’ve told me,” he says. “I would’ve thrown you a birthday party.”

“That’s why I didn’t tell you.”

“We can make up for it!” Bokuto exclaims. “We’ll have a joint birthday party!”

“No.”

“Kenmaaaaa, come ooooon.” Bokuto drapes himself across the table. “Let’s celebrate your birthday!”

“I don’t want to.”

Before Bokuto can protest further, Akaashi lays his hand on his shoulder.

“Koutarou, we need to get going. Our break is almost over.”

Bokuto sighs and peels himself off the table. “Okay, okay. But next year! I’m going to throw you a party so awesome you’ll never forget it!”

Kenma looks slightly green. “Please, don’t.”

As the rest of them get ready to leave, Kuroo stares at the young man beside him, still feeling guilty for not knowing, for not even _asking_ . . .

“Hey,” he says, as they step behind the café counter. “How about a dinner? Just you and me? It’ll be simple and low key . . . no Bokuto.”

Kenma’s lips twitch faintly. “That doesn’t sound so bad . . .”

“You don’t have to dress up fancy or anything,” Kuroo promises. “In fact! We don’t even need to leave the apartment. I’ll bring home stuff and cook you an amazing birthday dinner.”

Turns out, he can’t exactly fulfill that promise. After three failed attempts at making curry the way his mom always did when he was a kid, he ends up actually calling his mom to beg for her help. She’s over within the hour, laden with groceries.

“Where’s Kenma?” she asks, as Kuroo takes the bags from her.

“Yaku took him out,” he says. “I wanted the dinner to be a surprise.”

He looks miserably at the blackened pan in the sink. Ayame shakes her head. “You should’ve called me right away!” she exclaims, slapping him upside the head. “You’ve always been a terrible cook.”

“Hey,” Kuroo protests, rubbing the back of his head. “I’m pretty decent, now! I just . . . I need this to be amazing.”

Ayame gives him a wink and taps the side of her nose. “Good thing you called me, then.”

It feels like he’s stepped into a time machine, as he steps back and lets Kuroo Ayame take control of the kitchen. He acts as her sous-chef, just as he did when he was a kid, handing her ingredients, chopping the vegetables, and moving out of the way whenever he needs to. Even their banter feels like old times, how she teases him, how he complains, how she pats his cheek with a hand slimy from the chicken, sending him running to the bathroom to wash off the salmonella germs. Their laughter echoes through the kitchen, and Kuroo can’t help but wish Kenma were there to share this with them.

When everything is done, however, he’s glad he sent Kenma away. The table is set to perfection, candles lit, the smell of the curry making Kuroo’s mouth water. Before he lets his mom go, however, he pulls out his gift to Kenma to show her, unable to help but feel sheepish about it.

“Do you think this’ll be okay?” he asks hopefully.

Ayame looks back at him with only tenderness and love in her eyes, as she cups his cheek in her hand briefly. “My sweet, sweet boy . . . he’d be crazy not to love it.”

He feels invigorated at her words, but he can’t help but feel like a bundle of anxious nerves when Kenma gets back. He fidgets nervously, as Kenma steps through the door, but he forces a confident smile and walks forward to greet him with a kiss on the cheek.

“Are you ready for your amazing birthday dinner?” he asks, grinning crookedly.

Kenma tilts his head. “Is that . . . chicken curry?”

Kuroo nods. “My mom used to always make it for me when I was a kid. It was my favorite dish after grilled salted mackerel pike. Is . . . that okay?”

Kenma shrugs off his coat, hanging it on the hook near the door, as he slips off his shoes. He trots toward the kitchen eagerly, which Kuroo takes to mean that it is. Kenma stops short in the doorway, however, looking at the display. There’s a red cloth over the table, and Kuroo brought out his best plates and his highest quality chopsticks that he only uses when his grandparents visit once in a blue moon. There’s tea steaming from ceramic cups, and in the center of the table, between the candles, is a freshly baked apple pie.

“Happy birthday,” Kuroo says softly, watching Kenma’s face closely.

As always, it’s unreadable, but Kuroo thinks he can see his large eyes watering slightly.

“Here,” he says, leaping forward to pull out the chair for him. Kenma moves slowly, looking somewhat dazed, as he sits. Kuroo tries to not let his silence unnerve him, as he pushes Kenma’s chair in and hurries around to take a seat across from him.

“I hope this is okay . . .” he says.

Kenma looks up at him across the table. “I haven’t celebrated my birthday since I turned sixteen,” he admits quietly.

“I want to celebrate you,” Kuroo says seriously. “I won’t forget again.”

“Stupid, you didn’t forget. I never told you,” Kenma mutters, staring down at his plate.

“Still.” Kuroo shrugs. “Let’s eat! I’m starving.”

Kenma picks up the chopsticks carefully, almost as though he’s afraid he might break them. After a soft “thanks for the food,” Kuroo watches with bated breath as he takes his first bite. The way his face relaxes and his lips twitch upward tell Kuroo all he needs to know.

He digs in himself, then, and he thanks his mom silently, as the delicious blend of flavors slide over his tongue. It’s amazing, and neither of them speaks much during the meal, so focused are they on eating every savory bite. Kenma doesn’t eat large portions, Kuroo’s noticed, but even so he still reaches for the pie once he’s done. Kuroo laughs.

“You still have room for this?” he asks, as he picks up the knife to cut it.

Kenma nods eagerly, watching with shining eyes, as Kuroo serves him a slice. He digs in immediately, humming contentedly under his breath. Kuroo’s so caught up watching him, his chest warm and full, that he almost forgets his gift.

“Oh!” he says when he remembers. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small box, sliding it across the table to Kenma. “This is for you.”

Kenma slows, his eyes lingering on the box. “What is it?”

Kuroo chuckles. “Open it.”

Kenma sets down his fork gingerly, reaching over to pick it up. He stares down at the box for a long moment, until Kuroo starts to get nervous again.

“It’s not what you might think,” he says quickly. “A-actually, maybe . . . I’ll get you something else. You probably want a game or something . . .”

He reaches for the box, but Kenma pulls away from him, opening it.

Kuroo grimaces, realizing now how stupid this might seem. Inside the box sits a simple silver ring with a band of black across the middle. Kenma stares at it, his face unreadable, and Kuroo hastens to explain.

“It’s not a proposal or anything,” he babbles. “It’s just a promise ring. A promise . . . that I love you, that I’ll always love you, and that I’ll always fight for you, no matter what, and I’ll always wait for you, if you need me to, that I’ll do whatever you need me to do. And you don’t have to accept it, if it’s too intense or-or weird or whatever, but I just . . . I just wanted you to have something, to reassure you, if you ever feel . . . I don’t know . . . like you did with Tora when you ran . . .”

Kenma continues to stare and say nothing.

“You hate it, don’t you? It was a stupid idea—”

“No,” Kenma says, looking up at him finally. “It’s not that.” He reaches into his own pocket and pulls out a small box. He sets it on the table in front of Kuroo.

Kuroo blinks down at it dumbly.

“It was supposed to be for your birthday . . .” Kenma says, looking away, as his cheeks grow pink. “Yaku helped me pick it out.”

Kuroo picks up the box and opens it. Inside is a black ring with a silver band around it. Kuroo barks out a laugh before he can stop himself.

“Holy shit!” He grins over at Kenma. “Seriously?”

Kenma looks at the box instead of Kuroo. “Mine’s a promise, too,” he says. He lifts his gaze then, meeting Kuroo’s squarely. “I’m not going to run anymore. Not from you.”

Kuroo’s chest feels like it’s going to explode. “I love you,” he says helplessly, because he can’t say anything else. “I love you so much.”

Kenma ducks his head, hiding behind his hair. “Me too,” he murmurs, and it’s the closest he’s ever gotten to saying the actual words.

Kuroo hops up from the table, moving around it to kneel beside Kenma’s chair and wrap him up in a hug. Kenma lays his head on Kuroo’s shoulder, and Kuroo squeezes his eyes shut, reveling in the moment.

That is until he feels Kenma’s chin moving against him and the sound of chewing reaches his ears.

“Are you eating your pie right now?” he asks with an incredulous laugh.

“It’s really good,” Kenma says, his words garbled by the pie in his mouth.

“You’re ruining the moment!” Even as he says it, though, Kuroo can’t stop grinning.

Nothing’s ruined. Everything’s perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://shions-heart.tumblr.com/


End file.
